Morning light slants through the farmhouse windows, pale and thin as milk. It spills across the kitchen table, warming the wood and catching on the faint stains of ward-ink that refuse to wash off my fingers. The air smells of toast, tea, and the faint metallic hum of the wards — steady, rhythmic, almost like breathing.
It should feel safe.
It almost does.
Grams sits by the stove, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, reading through a stack of old papers while Bella colors beside her. Every few minutes, Grams hums low in approval, the same sound she makes when the wards settle properly into place. I don’t know if she’s praising the papers or the peace.
I lean against the counter, tea cooling between my palms, watching the world behave like it’s normal. Like a council of demons didn’
