The first sun after the Council’s runes cracked found Rowan standing barefoot at the old parish fence. It hadn’t kept anything out in years — just a line of bent posts and rusted wire that said this side yours, that side theirs. Rowan pressed her toes to the wet earth where the hush licked her ankles. Lucien leaned against the splintered gate a few feet away, breath coiling in dawn’s chill, claws hidden but not gone.
Behind them, the Guthrie witches gathered — feet bare, salt under their nails, hush marks fresh on their palms where they’d scraped Council sigils down to raw skin. Edith stood with them — crownless, shoulders bowed but not broken. Miriam flanked her, salt bowl at her hip like a charm she didn’t fear anymore.
Maisie perched on the fence post beside Rowan, tiny toes digging i
