Chapter 5
KRISTA
By the time dusk starts sliding in, the Hollow doesn’t look like a town anymore. It looks like the pages of a fairy tale spilled into the woods and brought every shadow with it.
Lanterns flicker to life from every tree branch, glowing gold and violet, some shaped like pumpkins with curling stems, others like birds and crescent moons.
There’s a pulse to the light, like each one breathes in rhythm with the wind.
Little charms jingle softly with every breeze, strung between booths and over doorways, casting lazy spirals across the cobblestones that are slowly being swallowed by fallen leaves.
I’ve wrapped Mari in her favorite oversized scarf, one that’s three shades of purple and smells like the cinnamon sachets Delphina keeps tucked in her shop.
Her cheeks are already sticky from the marshmallow truffle she wheedled out of a tall shifter woman dressed like a walking haystack.
There’s music drifting from somewhere down near the square, a haunting fiddle tune layered with bells and the occasional hoot from someone who’s probably had too much cider.
It’s perfect, but not in the polished, catalog-photo kind of way. It’s raw and layered and just a little crooked. The good kind of imperfect. The kind that feels real.
“Look at the bats!” Mari squeals, tugging my hand and pointing toward a garland strung between two lamp posts. Paper bats. Except, when I squint, I swear some of them blink.
She dances ahead, stopping every few feet to spin in the middle of the street. Her boots crunch over leaves and her laughter carries, high and clear. People wave as we pass, smiling like they know us better than they should. I get the sense the town remembers more than it lets on.
We pass a tent striped in burnt orange and wine-red, its entrance hung with beads and smoke curling out the back like someone left the incense burning too long.
A man in a velvet coat gestures dramatically as a girl levitates six inches off the ground, rotating slowly like a starfish in a mild current.
The crowd oohs and claps, but no one looks surprised.
“Want your cards read?” someone calls from behind me. I turn to see a girl who can’t be older than sixteen, wearing a crown of dried moss and holding a deck tied with twine.
“Maybe later,” I say with a smile that’s half apology, half promise.
She tilts her head. “It’s already happening anyway.”
I don’t ask what she means. I just nod and keep walking.
The square is packed by the time the moon slides over the tree line.
Torches line the perimeter, their flames pale blue and utterly still.
Someone’s carved dozens of jack-o’-lanterns, each one lit from within by a soft green glow, and every single one wears a different expression.
Some mischievous, others mournful, a few that seem downright smug.
Mari tugs me toward a long table piled high with caramel apples, each one glittering with enchanted sugar. The woman behind the table—stocky, gray-haired, and wrapped in a shawl embroidered with little dancing ghosts—hands Mari the shiniest one without a word.
“Thank you,” I say, and she just nods once, eyes never leaving Mari.
We find a spot near the edge of the square, close enough to see the stage where a trio of performers in masks is telling some kind of spooky story in rhythmic chants. I can’t make sense of the words, but the cadence sinks into my skin and hums there like a warning I can’t quite translate.
Mari leans against me, humming to herself between bites of apple. Her curls catch the lanternlight, turning reddish gold, and for a second, I forget how tired I am.
Until I feel it.
That prickling.
The one that started a few days ago. The one that whispers behind my ears and pulls the hairs on my arms to attention.
I glance over my shoulder, slow and careful, like maybe not rushing it will trick whatever’s watching into thinking I didn’t notice.
But the trees behind us are empty. Just thick fog weaving through the trunks, and the occasional glint of lanterns swinging in the breeze.
Still, the feeling lingers. Like breath on the back of my neck. I shift closer to Mari.
And that’s when I see him.
Hardin stands near the edge of the torchlight, half in shadow.
He hasn’t noticed me yet—or maybe he has and doesn’t care—but he’s watching the crowd like it’s a battlefield he’s memorized a hundred times over.
He doesn’t look comfortable, but he also doesn’t look like he plans to leave.
His arms are crossed over his chest, jaw set, golden eyes scanning every movement like he’s expecting something to go wrong.
Maybe he is.
I don’t know what makes me walk over. Maybe it’s the way I’m buzzing under my skin, like something electric has started pooling in my hands and needs somewhere to go.
Maybe it’s just the way he makes the air quieter around him.
Like the space he occupies has rules, and I understand them better than the rest of this town.
He sees me before I reach him. His posture doesn’t change, but his gaze settles, just a little.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” I say, brushing a stray curl from my cheek. “You strike me more as a backwoods-and-solitude kind of guy.”
“I am.”
“So this is...?”
“Obligation.”
I laugh softly. “You really know how to charm a crowd.”
He shrugs.
I turn, watching the performers for a moment. “It’s beautiful, though. In a weird, almost-threatening kind of way.”
“That’s accurate.”
We fall quiet for a beat. The fog shifts again, creeping closer to the square’s edges. I feel it in my teeth. Something’s moving. Not fast. But watching.
“You feel that?” I ask, and my voice comes out lower than I mean it to. Not scared. Just... aware.
“I do.”
I glance at him, expecting that same distant stare he wears like armor. But this time, there’s something else under it. Something almost gentle. He looks at me like he’s seeing more than he should.
“What is it?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
“Could be nothing. Could be the Hollow reminding us we’re not in charge.”
His voice is like gravel warmed by fire. Rough, but not unkind. I want to ask more, but Mari comes running up just then, breathless and sticky and glowing with too much sugar and joy.
“Mama! That man had a snake and it told me I’m a moon!” she says, arms flailing.
“Did you understand the snake?”
“Duh. It hissed in poems.”
Hardin raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. “It’s been a long day.”
Mari wraps herself around my leg and rests her cheek against my hip. “Can we stay a little longer?”
I glance at Hardin, who’s still watching the trees.
He nods once. “Stay in the light.”
We do.
And that’s when it happens.
One of the lanterns near us flickers. Not like a candle caught in the wind, but like something sucked the light from it. Then another. Then a third. The crowd doesn’t notice right away, but I feel it. Like the ground beneath us is stretching, reaching.
Mari doesn’t seem to notice. She’s busy showing Hardin the glitter in her pockets.
But my hand twitches. I reach out, half on instinct, and my fingers brush his.
It’s a simple touch. Nothing more than skin against skin. But it lights something in me I can’t explain.
A spark. Literal.
Tiny arcs of light skip across my fingers like static, but it’s warm. It pulses, once, like a heartbeat, then fades. I yank my hand back, eyes wide, but he doesn’t flinch.
His gaze holds mine steady.
“You felt that?” I ask, voice tight.
He doesn’t answer. But his expression softens, almost imperceptibly. He looks not just alert, but conflicted.
“I need to take Mari home,” I say, even though I don’t want to move.
He nods.
I gather my daughter and her collection of festival debris and make my way back through the square, away from the thinning crowd and the lanterns that still sputter faintly behind us. I don’t look back.
But I feel him.
Watching.
And for once, it doesn’t feel like something I should be afraid of.