Chapter 10
HARDIN
The mark doesn’t show up at first. It never does.
Ancient magic sleeps quiet until it’s touched by something sharp, something near the edge. Then it stirs. It presses through the skin like frost blooming beneath a pane of glass. Mari is halfway through a chalk hopscotch game she drew herself in the dirt when I see it.
She skips the square marked with a spiral.
Pauses. Lifts her arm to swipe her forehead, and the hem of her sleeve pulls back just enough.
The mark flashes—silver and faint, just above the bend of her elbow—three lines forming a broken circle, the center hollow.
Old. Too old. It pulses once and vanishes like it never existed.
My body stills. Every breath slows to a cold crawl.
She doesn’t see me watching. Just hops back into her game, singing to herself under her breath, her curls catching the late morning light.
She’s not frightened. Not aware. That mark isn’t active yet.
But it will be. That’s how it works. Bloodlines like hers—like Johanna’s—carry more than memory.
They carry inheritance. They carry obligation.
And sometimes, they carry prophecy.
I move to the edge of the porch, arms folded across my chest. The new railing I installed creaks as I lean into it, eyes never leaving the child in front of me.
My thoughts claw backward. The last time I saw that symbol it was carved into a stone altar buried beneath the Hollow’s deepest grove, set there to bind a wild thing that had no name.
Johanna and I stood over it then. She never explained why it glowed when she approached.
Now I know.
This is her blood.
Mari skips to a stop. “Hardin,” she says, grinning wide, cheeks smudged with dirt. “Come play.”
“Not today,” I say, voice rougher than I intend.
She pouts a little but doesn’t push. She never does. That’s what makes her dangerous. She listens when most children would test.
I wait until Krista steps out onto the porch. She’s carrying two mugs, one held in each hand, and her face is calm but drawn at the edges. She hasn’t been sleeping well. The Hollow weighs on her like it’s testing her bones for cracks.
She hands me one mug, sits beside me. Doesn’t say anything.
I take a slow sip and feel the warmth creep down into my chest. Cinnamon and something floral. She always puts more into her tea than I do.
“I saw the mark,” I say quietly, not looking at her.
She doesn’t ask what I mean. Just closes her eyes and breathes in.
“Left arm. Fold of the elbow. It pulsed.”
She exhales slowly. “Yeah, I saw it too. What does it mean?”
“It means she’s not just magic-touched. She’s bound. The Hollow’s claimed her. Fully.”
Krista sets her mug down with both hands, knuckles white.
“Can we undo it?”
“No.”
She nods. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t panic. Just starts thinking, the way she always does: quiet, deep, practical.
“What now?”
“You start learning. Not charms and soft sigils. You need real wards. Combat ones. Boundaries that hold. Those with ill intent will come for her. Entities that are drawn to power and don’t even know it.”
“I’ve only been at this a few weeks.”
“You don’t have time for more.”
She stands then, rubbing her hands on her thighs like she’s trying to ground herself. Her voice is soft but firm. “Teach me.”
“I’m not a teacher.”
“Then be something else. But I need to know. For her.”
Her shoulders don’t shake. Her chin doesn’t dip. She just looks at me like I’m a wall she plans to climb whether or not I offer a hand.
I nod once.
That afternoon, we clear the garden patch and turn it into a warding circle.
The grass is flattened, the stones laid in a precise arc with a break on the northern end.
I draw the sigils with coal and ash, dusted with salt ground from a slab I brought from my forge.
Krista watches everything. She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t question.
She’s quicker than I expected.
“The first rule is focus,” I say, crouched over the ring. “You don’t let your fear take the reins. You feel it. You let it pass. Then you act.”
She mirrors my stance. “Like how?”
“Like this.”
I draw a symbol for protection in the dirt—a square inside a circle, wrapped in points that form a star. Then I hold my palm to the center and murmur the invocation. The line glows, faint at first, then pulses.
Krista copies the shape, her fingers smudging slightly as she moves. Her hands aren’t steady yet, but her intent is sharp.
She speaks the words.
The mark flickers.
Not a pulse. A spark.
I blink.
She sits back, panting slightly. “Did I mess it up?”
“No,” I say, slowly. “You stabilized it. First try.”
She lifts a brow. “That’s… good?”
“That’s not supposed to happen.”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this is war magic. It takes months. You just settled it on instinct.”
She doesn’t smile. She just presses her hands together, fingertips trembling.
“I have to be ready,” she says. “Because I don’t think we’ll get a warning when whatever’s coming arrives.”
I don’t correct her. Because she’s right.
For the next hour, she practices laying lines, drawing protective layers in different directions.
I show her how to reinforce with blood—just a drop—and how to seal a line using breath instead of voice if stealth is required.
She absorbs it all. Like it’s already in her.
Like Johanna passed it down through marrow and memory and grief.
Mari stays inside, Delphina sitting with her. I hear their laughter through the open window. It cuts through the weight in the air like sunlight through mist.
After Krista’s fourth attempt at a fire ward, she sags back onto the ground, hair clinging to her temples, face flushed.
“I’m useless with heat spells,” she mutters.
“Your affinity’s with boundary work,” I say, tossing her a flask. “Not aggression. You’ll hold the line, not break through it.”
“Comforting,” she says, after a long drink. “I’ll be the magical equivalent of a well-locked door.”
I glance at her. “You’re more than that.”
She meets my eyes, and something flickers there—tired but steady, worn but burning. She nods once.
“Good,” she says. “Because if something tries to take her, I’ll burn this whole town down to stop it.”
And I believe her.