Chapter 18
Hanna
Iheld the little glass bottle up to the light, and my breath caught.
Oh.
Even now, hours after I’d finished brewing it, the liquid glowed softly—a deep, shimmering green that rippled like starlight over water. Savla’s pigments had blended into my magick so seamlessly that I couldn’t tell where his art ended and my spell began.
It didn’t look like a potion anymore. It looked like hope in a bottle. Like the feeling of coming home after being lost for so long you’d forgotten what home even meant.
Hearthlight.
The name had come to me in the middle of the night, somewhere between my third failed attempt and the moment everything finally clicked. A potion that gave you that feeling—that deep, bone-settling certainty that you were exactly where you were meant to be. That you belonged.
And with Savla’s shimmers woven through it...I swallowed hard. When family members or mates drank from the same batch, they’d feel each other. Not telepathy, nothing invasive—just warmth. A quiet awareness that their people were out there, thinking of them—that they weren’t alone.
Distance won’t matter. The shimmer connects you.
I didn’t know why that made my eyes sting. And then—there it was again. The faint, familiar scent drifting up from the bottle. Light and sweet, like honey warmed by summer sun.
Dandelions.
My grandmother’s signature touch. The ingredient she’d added to every single recipe she ever taught me, because she said magick should always smell like something worth remembering. My heart twisted and warmed at the same time.
She’d be proud of this one, I think. I hope.
I set the bottle down before I could change my mind, then gathered it carefully against my chest and headed toward the coven hall. My palms tingled—not with magick this time, but nerves. Pure, ridiculous, what-if-they-laugh-at-me nerves.
You’re being dramatic. They’re your family now. They literally caught you sneaking cinnamon bread to Savla at three in the morning and only teased you about it for a week.
Inside, the coven was already gathered around the long table. Someone had made tea—the good kind, with the honey that Tasia spelled to never crystallize. Zara waved at me with a spoon dripping with said honey, her smile bright and completely unsuspecting.
Tabitha raised an eyebrow. It was that specific eyebrow. The one that said you’re carrying more emotional weight than that bottle, sweetheart, and we both know it.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and channeled every ounce of Hanna-who-told-her-parents-exactly-where-they-could-shove-their-merger-marriage.
“I want to sell it.”
The words came out too fast, tumbling over each other like they were trying to escape before I could stuff them back down. I held up the stoppered crystal bottle, and even in the warm light of the hall, it glowed from within—green and shimmering and alive.
“This potion. The new one.” My voice wavered, and I hated it. “The one Savla helped me make.”
Silence. Every witch in the room was staring at me.
Great. Fantastic. This is fine.
“I want to call it Hearthlight,” I continued, because apparently my mouth had decided we were doing this whether my brain agreed or not.
“It... it makes you feel like you belong. Like you’re home.
And if people who love each other drink from the same batch, they can feel each other.
Just—warmth. Connection. Even if they’re far apart. ”
I was rambling. I knew I was rambling. Tabitha set down her teacup with a soft clink.
“Let me see it,” she said.
I crossed the room on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else and placed the bottle in her weathered hands. She held it up, turned it slowly, watched the light ripple through the green.
The scent of dandelions drifted between us. Something flickered in her eyes—something old and knowing and impossibly soft.
“Your grandmother,” she murmured. “I’d recognize her signature anywhere.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Tabitha looked at me for a long moment. Then she looked at the bottle and finally back at me.
“Hanna, that’s your best work yet. You’re going to make a fortune with it and you should keep every cent.” She said it proudly, like a good friend advocating for my success.
I swallowed, shaking my head. “That’s not what I want.”
Tabitha’s expression softened. “Then what do you want, dear?”
“I want the profit to go into a fund,” I whispered, but the room was so quiet that I knew they were hearing every word I was saying, my voice steadying as the idea settled into my chest. “For witches who don’t…
who don’t have a place to go. Who can’t support themselves or escape situations.
” My throat tightened. “Like the one I was in or that Tasia was in. Like I’m sure many others still are. ”
The room went still—but not silent. It was a warm stillness, the kind that held you and it was only broken by odd sniffles here and there. Zara blinked hard, the spoon forgotten in her hand.
“Oh,” she gasped, waving a hand in front of her face as her voice trembled. “Hanna… that’s— that’s exactly how the coven was born.”
Tabitha reached for my hand, squeezing it gently.
“Zara’s mom created this coven because they needed refuge and they had nowhere to go.
They swore the coven would always remain a haven for any witch in need.
” Her smile creased with pride. “You honoring that promise… it means something. Something real.”
My eyes burned, and I laughed a little to hide it. “It’s what Grandmother would’ve wanted. She spent half her life helping witches who couldn’t help themselves and sometimes even when she couldn’t afford it. Now that I finally have something to offer, I want to help, too,” I admitted.
“You have her heart,” Tabitha whispered.
I shook my head, rubbing my thumb over the corked bottle. “She taught me that magic should make life better. Not just richer. And—” I swallowed. “I want this potion to do that. To really do that.”
Floria sniffed loudly—an unmistakable ‘I’m emotional but pretending I’m not’ sniff.
“Well then, we’ll help you,” she offered. “We’ll help you bottle it and brand it and get it on the market. And we’ll make sure every witch in trouble knows there’s a fund waiting for her.”
Zara finally broke into a watery grin. “I still think you deserve all the profit… but I’m proud of you. This is wiser and kinder than anything I’d have ever thought of.”
I felt my chest loosen—not with pride, but with belonging. Real belonging.
The coven gathered around me, passing the potion around gently, admiring the shimmer, the scent, the meaning. They didn’t just see a product. They saw legacy and they saw hope.
Somewhere deep inside, I felt my grandmother’s magick hum in quiet approval. For the first time since leaving home, I felt like I wasn’t just making potions. I was making a future—for myself, and for witches I hadn’t even met yet.
Zara whooped so loudly I nearly dropped the bottle, and somewhere in the chaos that followed—the excited chatter, the immediate brainstorming about distribution and pricing and oh, we need cute labels—I felt it.
Warmth. Not from the potion. From them. From this room full of chaotic, wonderful, ridiculous witches who’d caught me at my lowest and decided I was worth keeping.
This is what it feels like, I thought, clutching the bottle against my chest. This is what Hearthlight is supposed to give people.
The feeling of finally, finally being home.
I found Savla exactly where I knew he’d be—in the rooftop workshop, crouched beside Ribbon, who was sprawled on his back like the world’s largest, heaviest dog begging for belly rubs.
He looked… peaceful. Which was infuriatingly attractive, considering peace looked like something he rarely allowed himself.
I climbed the last few steps, clutching the small wooden box to my chest. The box that held the potion.
Savla’s head tilted the moment he sensed me—before I made a sound, before Ribbon’s croak announced my arrival. Our growing bond pulsed instinctively, that soft flicker of recognition he always pretended not to feel. He stood slowly, brushing clay dust off his palms.
“You’re early,” he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes tracked me like he was trying to read the entire reason I existed.
“I, um… needed to talk to you,” I said, trying to keep any hint of emotion from my voice.
He stilled completely. Savla Everlock could freeze more intensely than winter.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I added quickly.
He didn’t relax—because Savla only relaxed in extremely rare, possibly mythical circumstances—but he did nod toward his workbench.
“Come here,” he said in his gruff voice that meant no nonsense.
I sat on the stool opposite him, heart tapping unevenly against my ribs. He leaned one hip against the bench, arms crossed, waiting with that quiet patience that made me feel seen. Or examined—or both.
I took the time to admire his towering form and his delicious, broad shoulders that were just begging for me to hold onto them before I shook myself out of my near-stupor. I opened the wooden box.
The potion glowed softly inside, that green shimmer reflecting in his dark eyes. He didn’t reach for it, but something in his expression warmed.
“You finished it,” he murmured.
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “And I’m… going to sell it.”
His gaze snapped to mine—sharp, focused and a little startled.
“You’re selling it?” he asked, and there was no hint in his words about what he was thinking.
“Yes,” I responded, trying to mimic his tone, but probably failing. It was usually so easy to talk to him—not recently, since I realized what he was to me—but in general.
He didn’t respond right away. Savla’s silences were never empty. They pressed, evaluating and weighing. He looked back at the potion, then at me again.
“Why does it feel like there’s more to that?” he asked quietly.
Because he knows me. Because he listens even when I don’t speak.
I took a slow breath before I explained.
“It’s not just a potion. It’s… it’s a piece of my grandmother.
She used to make remedies like this. Not as flashy, maybe, but…
” My voice wavered a little. “She always said a good potion should feel like a hand on the shoulder. A little warmth and a little courage.”
Savla’s eyes softened. It was subtle, but I felt it like a shift in the air.
“She taught you?” he asked.
I nodded. “She taught me everything. She took me in as her apprentice when—” The words snagged. I looked down at my hands. “When my father… wasn’t interested in teaching me.”
Savla didn’t move, but the air around him changed—not hotter, but denser, like a shield forming around me. Drawing me closer even when he was telling himself he couldn’t touch me.
I kept going, quietly. “My parents wanted apprentices they could mold into perfect Greyleaf successors. I was… too soft for them. Too curious. Too messy. They said I lacked discipline.” A humorless laugh escaped me. “Grandma said discipline was for soldiers, not potion witches.”
That pulled a small sound from him—not a laugh, but close, a soft exhale that said he agreed.
“She took me into her workshop when I was six,” I continued. “Showed me how ingredients react, how intention shapes magic, how potions are half power and half heart.” My throat tightened. “She made me feel like I was worth teaching. Worth keeping.”
Savla was still watching me, but differently now—like I’d opened a door he’d never realized existed.
“And now,” I said, lifting the potion, “I want this to help witches who need what I needed. A way out and a way forward... A place to land when they fall.”
There was silence again, but then Savla stepped closer, slowly and deliberately, until his knee brushed mine. It wasn’t accidental and it wasn’t careless. Nothing he did was ever careless. It was the kind of closeness he only offered when he couldn’t hold himself back.
“Then I’m helping you,” he said, his voice low.
“You don’t have to—” I started, but he cut me off.
“I want to.”
The words hit me harder than any spell ever could. He took the potion from my hands, examining the shimmer with reverence, then set it down carefully.
“You’ll need an online storefront,” he said, already slipping into problem-solving mode. “A secure one. With options for bulk orders and enchantment proofing. The witch market websites can be a risk unless you know the safe vendors.”
I blinked at him. “You know about… witch e-commerce?”
One corner of his mouth tugged upward—the smallest smile, but a real one.
“I’ve bought a lot of specialty resin,” he deadpanned.
It made a warm laugh spill out of me, unexpected and embarrassing. His smile grew a fraction. Just a tiny fraction, but enough to make my heart stumble all over itself the way it loved to do when it came to him.
“I can help you set it up,” he said. “All of it. The storefront, the payment wards, the distribution routes.” He paused. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”
The words were so gentle, so careful, they felt like hands around my heart.
“Savla… that means a lot,” I whispered.
His jaw flexed—but not with the usual irritation. It looked like it was flexing with emotion he wasn’t sure how to hold.
“I know what it’s like,” he said quietly, “to build something from nothing. To need support you don’t get.” His eyes dropped to my hands, and his voice softened even more. “I’m offering mine.”
Something bloomed in my chest—warm, aching and utterly terrifying.
I nodded, before my voice could betray me. “Okay. I’d… like that.”
His fingers brushed mine when he closed the box again—an unintentional touch, but my magick flared between us, that faint, unmistakable spark that told me that even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself fully, my magick knew exactly who he was to me.
He pulled back too quickly, his jaw tightening and his eyes flicking away.
But he didn’t take back the offer or step away from me. And when he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper.
“We’ll make this work, Hanna.”
We. Not you. Not I. We.
Savla Everlock, who avoided connection like it was poison, had just tied himself to my dream with one simple word. And the Goddess Mother help me—I was already his.