The Rift looms at the back of the quarry—an ancient fracture in the ley network, shimmering blue-white tonight. The air around it shivers like heat above asphalt. Even from the ridge, the surge radiates outward, knocking against my ribs.
A few firefighters are huddled near a truck, talking urgently. A column of smoke rises from the east ridge, likely the lightning strike Simon mentioned.
My jaw tightens. “Children playing with matches.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Let me talk to them and find out where their captain is at,” Simon says as he climbs out.
I step out of the cruiser and onto the muddy ground. The rain slides down my coat. The ley lines beneath my feet jitter like live wires. I touch the stone beside me—just a brush—and the magic jumps into my palm, too volatile to channel cleanly. This isn’t standard overload. This is a rupture.
Someone—several someones—triggered this.
Probably unbonded. Of course.
I kneel and pull a small piece of slate from my coat pocket, fingers moving through familiar patterns. Runes carve themselves beneath my touch—sigils for grounding, binding, settling flow. When the last stroke locks into place, the stone warms.
I press it into the wet earth.
Simon comes running back.
A pulse shoots from my palm. The ley lines shudder, then ease, no longer thrashing like a cornered animal.
Simon stares. “Did you just… fix it?”
“No.” I stand, wiping mud from my hands. “I slowed the bleeding. That’s all.”
He looks toward the Rift. “I was told Sheriff Wilder’s somewhere down near the lower ridge, trying to contain the burn. You’ll have to coordinate with him to reach the ward anchors.”
“I assumed as much.”
A group of teens rush past, soaked and frantic, shouting about someone passing out earlier. Simon moves to intercept them, giving orders and directing people toward shelter.
I take a slow breath, letting the rain cool the burn under my skin. The headache settles into a dull hammer, rhythmic with the town’s heartbeat.
Cooling. But unstable.
This place is a mess. Wild magic. Unbonded hormones flooding the ley network. Wards held together by the sheriff’s grit and luck.
I look toward the tree line where the sheriff is supposedly fighting fires with half-trained witches.
Small-town chaos. Why Helena ever thought Willowbrook deserved saving is beyond me. Why Whitlock cares even more so.
But orders are orders. And if doing this earns me his favor…
Then I’ll tame this place. I’ll stabilize the Rift, reinforce the lines, drag the town into compliance if I must.
I glance toward the lower path.
Time to find Sheriff Damon Wilder.
Tea for Restless Nights:
Steep lavender in warm milk. Drink three sips before bed.
Icome back to myself slowly, dragged out of a thick, tangled sleep by something damp and persistent on my cheek. A tiny rasping stroke, then another. When I pry my eyes open, Thistle’s huge yellow stare is inches from my face, whiskers twitching like he’s judging my life choices.
