7. Griffin
Rune of Detection:
Carve into bone. Whispers truth where lies cling.
The town smells different. Smoke and wet earth mix with the tang of ozone from the flare, and every building, every street corner, hums faintly with residual magic.
I breathe it in, trying to regain my composure. It feels like walking into a memory that’s been altered, and the weird part is it’s not entirely bad. It’s Willowbrook, my hometown, but shifted, stretched by the surge.
Almost nine in the evening, and we’ve been fighting small fires for hours.
My boots splash through puddles that reflect orange and blue from flames and streetlights, and my jacket is soaked through, the scent of embers and wet wool clinging stubbornly.
Captain Noah’s waiting by the overturned hydrant, sleeves rolled back, face streaked with soot and rain. “Griffin, son,” he calls, his grin all warmth and reassurance, the kind I realize that I’ve missed since I left. “Thank god you’re here.”
He claps me on the shoulder, firm, fatherly.
I can’t help the faint twitch at the corner of my mouth.
Being back feels strange, like the town is observing me, measuring me, judging the years I’ve spent elsewhere.
I came to help, yes, but part of me wonders if the past has been waiting in the brick of every building.
“I’m here to help, Chief,” I reply, voice tight from smoke and fatigue.
Noah’s face softens, a shadow of memory crossing his eyes, before he turns toward the cluster of younger firefighters I don’t know as well.
“Keep moving on the east side, folks. Watch for sparks near the timbered homes.”
Beckett and Soren nod at me, sweat mixing with rain, eyes a little exhausted but still trusting. They know me by reputation, at least partially, but I’m still a stranger here, carrying my own scent and history through their streets.
I jog down the block, checking roofs and broken eaves. The wind tosses rain into my eyes, and I inhale, catching the familiar scent of crisp apple and fire-smoke beneath the ozone and wet earth.
It’s a strange comfort, the way the storm and the fire feel in my veins.
My magic doesn’t just stabilize the fires—it whispers through the heat and smoke, bending and curving the blaze into patterns that let us work.
Yet this is different. The surge left behind erratic pulses, an undercurrent in the town that sets my head buzzing and my stomach tight.
I roll my shoulders and keep moving, the weight of the gear familiar even as everything else feels off-kilter.
Beckett jogs ahead of me, long strides eating up the street, while Soren lags half a step behind, coughing into his elbow.
We fall into an easy rhythm anyway, calling out hazards and covering each other's blind spots as we move.
A roof pops somewhere to the left. Not a full collapse, more like a warning. I angle that way, boots sliding on wet asphalt, and tilt my focus upward. The shingles glow faintly, embers trapped where rain hasn’t quite reached.
I lift a hand and let my magic slide out, not forceful, more like a suggestion. The heat answers, curling back on itself, easing just enough for Beckett to hit it with the hose.
A woman stands on her porch across the street, wrapped in a blanket someone must have shoved into her hands.
Mrs. Halvorsen. She taught me algebra and used to slip me extra credit if I stayed after class to help clean the chalkboards.
Her eyes track me as I pass, recognition flickering.
She raises her hand, hesitates, then lowers it again.
I nod anyway. It feels important to be seen.
Soren catches up once the roof is clear. “You good?” he asks, eyes scanning my face like he’s checking for cracks.
“Yeah.” The answer comes easy, even if my head says otherwise. The hum under my skin hasn’t let up since I crossed the town line. It buzzes behind my eyes, tightens my jaw. I swallow and take a pull from my canteen. The water tastes like metal and plastic, but it helps.
We move on, street by street, dousing flare-ups before they can dig in. Noah’s voice crackles over the radio with updates and directions, calling people by their first names, his tone calm but clipped. Every now and then, he calls me son, and every time it lands somewhere in my chest.
Between calls, my thoughts drift where I don’t want them to go. Caroline. Her house isn’t far from here. I know which street, which corner, which maple tree drops leaves all over her driveway every fall.
I wonder if she felt the surge like I did, if it rattled her bones, if it woke something in her she wasn’t prepared to deal with. I tell myself it’s none of my business. I left. I don’t get to check in now.
But the town doesn’t care what I deserve. It keeps pulling.
We turn onto a narrower road where the houses sit closer together. Someone’s garden fence lies flat, scorched along one edge. A mailbox smolders, paint blistered and peeling. Soren kicks dirt over it and stamps it out with the heel of his boot.
“Feels wrong,” he says. “All of it.”
I grunt in agreement. Wrong is a good word for this. Not broken exactly. Twisted, maybe. Like something got nudged and hasn’t settled back yet.
A flash of movement catches my eye near the end of the block. A man stands in the road, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, arms lifted toward the sky like he’s trying to catch the storm itself. He’s shouting, words tumbling over each other, eyes bright in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“Hold up,” I mutter, jogging forward. “Sir, you need to get inside.”
He spins toward me, face splitting into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he calls. “It’s speaking. It’s telling us what comes next.”
Soren swears under his breath. “Pastor Gide.”
Of course it is. The man’s been predicting the end of everything since I was twelve. Used to corner people outside the grocery store with pamphlets and wild-eyed sermons. I thought he’d mellowed with age. Apparently not.
I keep my hands visible as I approach. “You’re in the middle of the road. Let’s get you somewhere dry.”
Lightning flashes overhead, close enough that thunder cracks almost immediately after. Gide laughs, throws his head back, rain running down his face like tears. “You can’t stop it,” he says. “None of you can.”
My head throbs, sharp and insistent. The air around him feels thick, charged in a way that makes my magic recoil. I grit my teeth and step closer.
“Sir,” I say, firmer now, “people are working. You’re going to get hurt.”
For a second, something like clarity flickers across his face. He blinks, lowers his arms. “I was just… I heard…”
Soren moves in smoothly, guiding him toward the sidewalk. “Let’s get you home,” he says. “Your sister’s been looking for you.”
That seems to do it. Gide lets himself be led away, still muttering, but quieter now. The pressure behind my eyes eases a notch.
I drag a hand down my face and blow out a breath. “Every town has one,” I mutter.
Beckett snorts. “Only one? You’ve been gone too long.”
We keep moving. The quarry comes into view as we crest the next rise, the open pit dark and slick under the rain, lights from emergency vehicles reflecting off standing water. The ground here feels different under my boots. Charged. Like stepping onto a live wire wrapped in dirt and stone.
I slow without meaning to. My magic reacts before my mind does, curling tight, then stretching, drawn toward the pit like a compass needle finding north. I press my palm against my thigh, grounding myself through the familiar weight of my gear.
Noah’s here already, barking orders, coordinating crews from Willowbrook and Rosehill both. When he spots me, his expression shifts, relief cutting through the strain.
“Hey boys,” he says as I approach. “Weather witches got spooked. Lightning jumped where it shouldn’t have.”
“I can feel it,” I say. The words slip out before I can stop them.
He nods once, sharp. “Then you know where to start.”
I move to the edge of the pit, rain soaking my hair and running down my neck.
The wards are old, set into stone markers spaced around the perimeter. I remember helping carve them during training drills. My hands were clumsy as Noah corrected my angles and constantly reminded me that patience mattered as much as power.
Tonight, the runes flicker, lines blurred, energy leaking through the cracks.
I kneel, pressing my fingers to the nearest stone.
The vibration hits me immediately, a low thrum that rattles my bones.
I breathe through it and let my magic seep out, following the grooves carved into the rock.
The lines answer, hesitant but responsive, like they recognize me even if I’ve been gone too long.
My head pounds harder as I work. Sweat mixes with rain on my skin. The magic here isn’t fighting me, but it isn’t yielding easily either. It’s been pulled in too many directions, stretched thin by untrained hands and raw emotion.
Behind me, I hear Beckett and Soren coordinating with the others, voices raised over the wind. Someone swears as a spark jumps where it shouldn’t. I grit my teeth and push a little more, just reinforcing, coaxing the lines back into something like order.
It helps. Not enough to fix everything, but enough to stop the bleeding. The flicker steadies, the thrum deepening into something more manageable. My vision swims for a moment, dark spots crowding the edges.
I pull back and sit on my heels, chest heaving. Noah crouches beside me, eyes sharp. “That’s all we need for tonight,” he says. “You did good.”
I nod, too tired to argue. My hands shake when I push myself upright. The rain feels colder now, soaking through everything.
We spend the next hour reinforcing what we can, moving from marker to marker, coordinating with the witches once they get their bearings back.
By the time the worst of it is contained, my limbs feel heavy, my thoughts sluggish.
The surge still hums beneath it all, but it’s muted now, less insistent.
As we pack up, Beckett claps me on the back. “You sticking around?” he asks. “We could use you.”
I hesitate. The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. Around us, the town bears its wounds, smoke still rising in places, lights flickering back on one by one.
“I’m just here to help,” I say finally.
He nods, accepting it for what it is. “Still,” he says. “Good to see you.”
I watch him walk away, then glance toward the cluster of houses beyond the trees. Somewhere over there, Caroline might be awake, dealing with her own aftermath. The unwelcome thought twists in my gut.
I turn away before it can take root. I’m only here to help… and maybe to see my parents before I head back to my own life.