Rowan stood in the hush. Not on the porch anymore. Not on floorboards that creaked under the weight of too many secrets. Just in the hush itself — damp air thick as old breath, roots pressing at her bare soles like a promise: feed us or break us. Lucien’s cold lingered behind her ribs, anchored where his claws had pressed just hours before. Maisie’s Sight throbbed in her temples — a pulse of warmth and teeth that was not Rowan’s alone anymore.
The Circle gathered behind her, half-kneeling, half-praying, none brave enough to speak when the hush had no words left to give them. Edith was on her knees at the swamp’s edge, skirts dark with black mud that licked her shins and made her crown slip free. She looked up at Rowan like she’d never seen her daughter before — and maybe she hadn’t. Not l
