The room smelled like wet earth and iron. Rowan sat cross-legged in the circle etched into the old wooden floor, its chalk lines trembling with the hum of power that pressed against her skin like a storm wind. All around her, the Guthrie witches chanted in low, discordant voices, weaving the Dreaming Path from words older than the language Rowan’s tongue was born into. Their voices made her teeth ache.
Lucien sat beside her, silent, hands resting on his knees. The fresh cut in his palm pulsed a slow drip of dark blood into the bowl between them, mixing with Rowan’s own thinner, brighter smear. Maisie’s fox sat propped at the edge of the bowl, its fur wet with the same blood, its glass eyes catching the flicker of candles that burned blue instead of gold.
Rowan’s mother stood at the edge
