Silas hums softly, hands tucked into his coat pockets, as though the rain doesn’t touch him at all. He’s methodical and annoyingly calm in the face of the storm outside. I can’t decide whether I envy him or want to shake the arrogance out of him. Probably both.
The air is thick with moisture, every breath pulling in the scent of wet earth, cedar from the manor, and the faint trace of wards humming faintly across the town. The weight of responsibility presses against me, but I keep my posture straight, shoulders squared. We need to stabilize the wards, account for every partygoer, and ensure nothing else triggers a surge of the Rift.
“I’ll handle the wards,” I say as we step into the truck, rain pelting the hood, “but after that, we need to run a headcount. I don’t want anyone left vulnerable.”
Silas nods. “Agreed. And after we finish the wards, a proper review of the runes. Some may need reinforcement. Others may require re-inscription entirely.”
He reaches over, tapping the dashboard with a finger. “We’ll start with the outer wards,” he says.
There’s no argument here, only action. I start the truck, headlights cutting through the rain-soaked street as we head toward the first ward.
We pass through the quiet streets of Willowbrook, checking each corner for anomalies in the wards, every stone, every line of magic traced in the foundation of the town. The storm rumbles overhead, a reminder that the Rift is restless, and every measure we take has to be exact. Silas adjusts the car’s rearview mirror, catching my gaze for a brief second.
“Once we finish the outer wards, I’ll need to inspect the inner wards with you,” he says. “The surge left residual instability. We can’t take any chances.”
I nod. “Then we get to work.”
The truck rounds the corner toward the first set of wards, and I let my attention settle where it belongs. By the time we stop, Silas is already climbing out into the rain. My irritation eases into grudging respect. Whatever else he is, the man knows his craft.
Rune of Detection:
Carve into bone. Whispers truth where lies cling.
The town smells different. Smoke and wet earth mix with the tang of ozone from the flare, and every building, every street corner, hums faintly with residual magic.
I breathe it in, trying to regain my composure. It feels like walking into a memory that’s been altered, and the weird part is it’s not entirely bad. It’s Willowbrook, my hometown, but shifted, stretched by the surge.
Almost nine in the evening, and we’ve been fighting small fires for hours.
My boots splash through puddles that reflect orange and blue from flames and streetlights, and my jacket is soaked through, the scent of embers and wet wool clinging stubbornly.
Captain Noah’s waiting by the overturned hydrant, sleeves rolled back, face streaked with soot and rain. “Griffin, son,” he calls, his grin all warmth and reassurance, the kind I realize that I’ve missed since I left. “Thank god you’re here.”
He claps me on the shoulder, firm, fatherly. I can’t help the faint twitch at the corner of my mouth. Being back feels strange, like the town is observing me, measuring me, judging the years I’ve spent elsewhere. I came to help, yes, but part of me wonders if the past has been waiting in the brick of every building.
“I’m here to help, Chief,” I reply, voice tight from smoke and fatigue.
Noah’s face softens, a shadow of memory crossing his eyes, before he turns toward the cluster of younger firefighters I don’t know as well.
“Keep moving on the east side, folks. Watch for sparks near the timbered homes.”
Beckett and Soren nod at me, sweat mixing with rain, eyes a little exhausted but still trusting. They know me by reputation, at least partially, but I’m still a stranger here, carrying my own scent and history through their streets.
I jog down the block, checking roofs and broken eaves. The wind tosses rain into my eyes, and I inhale, catching the familiar scent of crisp apple and fire-smoke beneath the ozone and wet earth.
It’s a strange comfort, the way the storm and the fire feel in my veins. My magic doesn’t just stabilize the fires—it whispers through the heat and smoke, bending and curving the blaze into patterns that let us work. Yet this is different. The surge left behind erratic pulses, an undercurrent in the town that sets my head buzzing and my stomach tight.
I roll my shoulders and keep moving, the weight of the gear familiar even as everything else feels off-kilter. Beckett jogs ahead of me, long strides eating up the street, while Soren lags half a step behind, coughing into his elbow. We fall into an easy rhythm anyway, calling out hazards and covering each other's blind spots as we move.
A roof pops somewhere to the left. Not a full collapse, more like a warning. I angle that way, boots sliding on wet asphalt, and tilt my focus upward. The shingles glow faintly, embers trapped where rain hasn’t quite reached.
I lift a hand and let my magic slide out, not forceful, more like a suggestion. The heat answers, curling back on itself, easing just enough for Beckett to hit it with the hose.
A woman stands on her porch across the street, wrapped in a blanket someone must have shoved into her hands. Mrs. Halvorsen. She taught me algebra and used to slip me extra credit if I stayed after class to help clean the chalkboards. Her eyes track me as I pass, recognition flickering. She raises her hand, hesitates, then lowers it again.
I nod anyway. It feels important to be seen.
Soren catches up once the roof is clear. “You good?” he asks, eyes scanning my face like he’s checking for cracks.
