The woods hum like a living thing.
Morning fog curls low across the ground, clinging to the roots and ward-stones that mark the edge of Grams’s land. Dew beads on every leaf, trembling in rhythm with the faint vibration underfoot—the same pulse that lives inside me now.
William waits ahead, sleeves rolled, shirt open at the throat. A small circle of carved runes glows faintly at his feet, light seeping from the lines he cut into the soil with almost surgical precision. He looks up when I approach, expression unreadable.
“Grams thinks this is a good idea?” I ask.
“She thinks I’m the only one who can keep you from burning half the county.” His tone is dry, but his eyes track me the way fire tracks oxygen. “Step inside the ring.”
I do, barefoot in damp grass. The air inside feels heavier
