I stood barefoot on the grass behind my mother’s cottage. Dew slicked the blades beneath my feet, and the air smelled of pine and ash.
I could still feel the echoes of last night’s training. My skin ached with its residue, the edges of my power crackling just beneath the surface. The stones I’d lifted, the fire I’d conjured—it all felt like some half-remembered dream, and yet the proof remained in the blackened patches of grass, the scorched bark of the old willow near the fence.
And now, I waited.
A flicker of movement from the trees caught my attention. My breath hitched.
Mrs. Hawthorne emerged from the forest like a spirit summoned by thought alone. She wore her usual long cloak, the folds of the fabric swaying like whispers, her white hair braided and pinned back with a silver comb
