Chapter 15 Krista
KRISTA
The Hollow glows gold tonight.
Lanterns swing from every eave and crooked post, bobbing like fireflies caught in some ancient spell.
Paper stars trail from string-draped fences, their points curling in the late-autumn breeze that carries the scent of applewood smoke and cloves, and just beneath it, that faint, ever-present trace of the Hollow itself—old earth and rain-soaked stone, layered history whispered beneath boots that crunch leaves into the mud.
I’ve never seen the town like this. Every cottage dressed up like a dream, every path marked with soft light and charm-bound symbols that glimmer faintly whenever I pass them.
Children laugh from somewhere behind the baker’s stand, their voices high and clear, chasing one another between flickering jack-o’-lanterns with faces too clever to be entirely handmade.
Mari holds my hand tight. She’s wearing the scarf Elodie knitted her last week, the one with the mossy green yarn and the tiny stitched acorns along the edge.
Her cheeks are pink from the cold, but her eyes are wide, alight with that kind of joy kids are born knowing and most adults spend their whole lives trying to remember.
“Can I make my lantern now?” she asks, bouncing slightly as we near the main square, where a long table has been set up with sheets of parchment and jars of glowing ink, attended by a wiry old man whose mustache curls into two perfect spirals.
His name’s Orin, I think. He smells like juniper and has a laugh like dry leaves.
“Of course,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “But be careful with the ink. That’s not Crayola.”
She giggles and runs off, shouting a hello to someone I don’t see, probably another of the Hollow’s odd children.
They’ve taken to Mari like she’s always been part of the forest, and sometimes I wonder if she has.
There’s something about how this place fits her that I still don’t entirely understand, but feel in my bones.
I watch her for a long moment, then exhale and step toward the cider stall, needing something warm in my hands.
The chill bites deeper tonight, and though the sky is clear, the wind smells like it might turn before morning.
Change is always carried in the breeze here—sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp.
Elodie appears beside me, wrapped in a velvet shawl and carrying a lantern of her own, one shaped like a moth with thin silver wings that catch the light every time she shifts.
“She looks happy,” she says, nodding toward Mari.
“She is,” I answer. “I’m trying not to ruin it.”
Elodie hums softly. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re holding a kettle right before it boils over.”
“I’m fine.”
She raises a brow. “Liar.”
I sigh, then take the mug of cider handed to me by the vendor with a soft thanks and let the warmth bleed into my palms. “I haven’t seen him. Not since that night.”
“You don’t have to say which night.”
“I didn’t think I would feel… abandoned. Not like this.”
Elodie leans in a little, voice low. “Hardin has been hurt more ways than most can count. He’s afraid that touching something good will leave a scar.”
“I’m not a wound.”
“No,” she says, “you’re something worse. You’re hope. And that scares him more.”
I close my eyes briefly. The cider tastes of cinnamon and disappointment.
Later, when the sky’s gone the deep indigo of moonless magic and the lanterns begin their ascent into the air, Mari finds me again. Her cheeks are flushed, fingers stained faintly from ink and glittering powder. She holds her lantern with both hands, careful, reverent.
It’s shaped like a heart. Not the cartoon kind. More anatomical. Strikingly realistic in the way only a six-year-old’s raw honesty can be.
“This one’s for him,” she says softly, tilting it toward me.
I don’t need to ask who.
She tugs my sleeve, eyes shimmering in the light.
“Can I wish now?”
“Of course, baby.”
She walks to the circle, where other children have gathered, lanterns in hand, their little faces upturned to the sky. The town’s bell chimes once, deep and clear, and they all let go.
The lanterns rise.
Soft glows, shaped like birds and stars and trees and a thousand other things drift upward, caught on the Hollow’s breath, lifting higher than they should, held aloft by something older than fire or air.
Mari’s rises last, the heart flickering with a pulse of pale gold, and for a moment, I swear the wind hushes around it.
She whispers something I can’t hear.
Then it’s gone, floating higher, until it’s a dot in the sky among a thousand others.
Back at the cottage, Mari’s asleep by the hearth, curled in a blanket with crumbs from honey biscuits still on her chin. I cover her with the thick quilt and kiss her forehead, then climb the stairs, feet slow on the old wood.
The attic smells like dried lavender and parchment. I light three candles and settle on the floorboards, pulling the grimoire from beneath the loose panel I’ve taken to using as a hiding spot.
The cover hums under my fingers. The lock clicks open with the touch of my palm, and the pages fan open on their own, stopping halfway through the book at a chapter titled “Heir of Untamed Flame.”
There’s no ink here. Only symbols, moving slowly across the page like ripples in still water.
Then they still.
Beneath them, a single line appears in delicate, curling script:
“When the child of wild magic awakens, the Hollow shall bloom again—and the blood shall call the bones home.”
The room goes quiet.
I touch the words, and the page warms.
A vision floods me—brief, flickering—of Mari standing in a grove that doesn’t exist, surrounded by figures cloaked in shadow, her eyes lit with silver light. The wind around her bends like it’s afraid.
Then it vanishes.
I close the book, heart pounding, throat tight.
She’s not just special. She’s central.
And someone knows.