Chapter 25
KRISTA
There’s a particular kind of silence that settles in when the world knows you’re preparing for something.
It isn’t peaceful, and it’s not empty. It’s full of the weight of waiting.
A held breath stretched long. Even the Hollow feels it, and the air curls tighter around the cottage like it wants to help, like it wants to lean in and ask what I need from it.
I don’t know where the idea comes from exactly—just that I wake with it. Like it grew roots in my dreams and split the surface of my mind sometime before dawn. It isn’t a scream or a flash of panic or the old familiar ache of trying to outrun a man who never learned how to let go.
It’s just one word: Shield.
Not a wall. Not a weapon. A shield. Something you hold up when you’ve finally decided not to run anymore.
By sunrise, I’m already at the worktable in the sunroom, which hums with energy. My grimoire lies open, and the pages smell like ink and candle smoke and dried thyme. The edges are dog-eared from the nights I stayed up tracing circles with my fingertip, whispering over the spells like lullabies.
Mari is still asleep, and I hope she stays that way a little longer.
I start by cleaning the table, wiping it down with a cloth soaked in rosemary and witch hazel. Every motion feels deliberate. My hands don’t shake this time. I don’t flinch at the shadows in the corners. I light a beeswax candle and breathe deep when the flame catches.
This spell is old. Not dramatic. Not flashy. But it’s the kind that sinks into the bones of a place and says: this space is mine.
I draw the first rune in salt and ash, my finger pressing into the powder like I’m etching it into my own skin.
Protection of the spirit.
Protection of the body.
Protection of the child.
Each line comes from memory now. I don’t need to look down. My lips move like the words were sewn into them years ago and only now remembered how to slip free.
By the time the charm is sealed, my fingertips are black and gritty, and my throat feels raw. But I feel it. The shift. The ripple of energy moving through the house like a heartbeat synced with mine.
I’m not hiding anymore. I’m fortifying.
After Mari wakes and eats a bowl of cereal with more blueberries than actual flakes, I send her with Delphina again.
There’s a tremble in her smile that didn’t used to be there, a softness in her voice when she whispers goodbye that leaves something sharp in my chest. But she hugs me twice before she goes and promises to bring back some lichen “because it’s cool and squishy. ”
Once the door closes behind them, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and a cup of lukewarm tea that tastes faintly of lemongrass and iron. The spell isn’t enough on its own.
I need paper shields too.
I log into the legal aid portal that Therrin showed me last spring.
He told me once, while fixing a broken window latch with nothing but a rune and a grunt, that bureaucracies were just another form of ritual.
You fill in the blanks, you draw the right circles, and if you say the words in the right order, you summon outcomes.
I’m going to hold him to that.
I pull every form. Residency affidavits. Caregiver documentation. Hollow jurisdictional exceptions. I fill out each one like I’m sketching a protection circle, careful, focused, naming every truth I have like it’s a spell in itself.
Mari lives here.
I am her mother.
We are safe here.
The words don’t tremble anymore when I type them. My fingers move with purpose. When the cursor blinks on the screen, it feels like a heartbeat echoing my own.
By early evening, I’ve finished the enchantments on the threshold and woven sigils into the windowsills with chalk mixed from eggshells and charcoal. I pour a bit of wax over each corner and whisper her name into the seal.
The house feels different now. Not louder. But firmer. Rooted.
The second I sit down, body aching from the hunched intensity of the day, I hear the front door creak.
It’s Hardin.
He’s damp from the fog, his hair curling at the edges, eyes sharp and watchful like he’s been scouting. I don’t ask where he’s been. I know.
I just nod toward the kettle. “Tea?”
He grunts, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “That’d be good.”
I pour it without speaking, and he takes it with both hands like he’s holding something precious, even if it’s just warm leaves and water. He’s quiet for a minute, just watching me the way he does when he’s trying to memorize something.
“What?”
“You look different,” he says.
“Do I?”
“Yeah.” He takes a sip. “Like you’re not scared anymore.”
I think about that. “I’m still scared. I’m just not waiting for someone else to make it better.”
His jaw tightens, and I know that means something to him. I don’t think Hardin’s ever liked watching someone else fight. I think it makes him feel like he’s failing.
But I’m not something he has to save.
“You’re doing more than anyone else could,” he says. “I’ve seen council mages who wouldn’t know how to do half of what you did today.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I nod.
Then he leans forward, sets his cup down, and says, “I’m proud of you.”
The words land softer than I expected. Like rain instead of thunder.
I don’t cry. But it’s close.
Later that night, Mari wakes up screaming.
I bolt upright, heart pounding before my brain catches up. She’s crying before I get to the door, and my hands are already reaching for the little bottle of lavender oil in the drawer like muscle memory.
But when I step into the hallway, I see her room’s already open.
And Hardin’s there.
He’s crouched by her bed, his massive frame making the room look even smaller than it is.
He’s not saying much, just rubbing her back in slow circles, his voice low and steady like the way he speaks to trees when he’s helping them heal.
He says her name every so often. Tells her she’s safe.
That nobody’s coming. That the scary man isn’t here, won’t get in, can’t get close.
Mari sniffles and curls into him like she’s known his voice since she was born. Her little hand curls into the fabric of his shirt.
I stay in the doorway and watch.
I don’t interrupt.
Because I think this is the first time I’ve ever really seen what safety looks like when it’s lived instead of promised. And it’s quiet, and patient, and bigger than anything I could have built on my own.
He stays with her until she’s breathing slow again, thumb still pressed to the hem of his sleeve. Then he eases back, carefully, and catches my eyes over her head.
I nod. He nods back.
When we step out of the room, neither of us says anything. We don’t need to.
The night is quiet again. But it’s stronger now.