When the sun rose over the swamp it found the Guthrie house still standing — but different. The porch boards were damp with root sap where the hush had cracked them open. The old salt lines glowed under the new ones Rowan laid down herself, bare palms pressing each line into damp wood like promises whispered to wet earth. The Circle moved around her like shadows and moths — witches who once clung to old prayers now sweeping out ash, scraping off Council marks from doorframes with fingernails and dull knives.
Inside, Maisie sat curled on Edith’s lap near the cold hearth, her small fingers tracing old runes in the soot left by a fire that never stayed lit long enough for warmth. Edith’s spine bent forward, hair unbound, crown lost and not missed. She whispered something only Maisie heard —
