Rowan hadn’t slept since the swamp swallowed the Mireborn. She didn’t want sleep now — not when every inch of her skin hummed with the hush that followed power unleashed. She sat on the warped porch steps, the wood still damp with swamp mist and old salt, the sun struggling to lift itself through the cypress canopy. The Guthrie house behind her breathed quiet and wide-eyed. Her Circle. Her roots. Hers now — or gone forever.
Inside, Maisie’s soft snores drifted through the cracked windows. Lucien had finally coaxed her to rest, curled in the old rocking chair by the cold hearth. Rowan could see the outline of him through the glass — that impossible silhouette, all sharp shoulders and watchful stillness, Maisie’s small body pressed to his chest like an ember he refused to let go out.
Rowan
