Tonight, the runes flicker, lines blurred, energy leaking through the cracks.
I kneel, pressing my fingers to the nearest stone. The vibration hits me immediately, a low thrum that rattles my bones. I breathe through it and let my magic seep out, following the grooves carved into the rock. The lines answer, hesitant but responsive, like they recognize me even if I’ve been gone too long.
My head pounds harder as I work. Sweat mixes with rain on my skin. The magic here isn’t fighting me, but it isn’t yielding easily either. It’s been pulled in too many directions, stretched thin by untrained hands and raw emotion.
Behind me, I hear Beckett and Soren coordinating with the others, voices raised over the wind. Someone swears as a spark jumps where it shouldn’t. I grit my teeth and push a little more, just reinforcing, coaxing the lines back into something like order.
It helps. Not enough to fix everything, but enough to stop the bleeding. The flicker steadies, the thrum deepening into something more manageable. My vision swims for a moment, dark spots crowding the edges.
I pull back and sit on my heels, chest heaving. Noah crouches beside me, eyes sharp. “That’s all we need for tonight,” he says. “You did good.”
I nod, too tired to argue. My hands shake when I push myself upright. The rain feels colder now, soaking through everything.
We spend the next hour reinforcing what we can, moving from marker to marker, coordinating with the witches once they get their bearings back. By the time the worst of it is contained, my limbs feel heavy, my thoughts sluggish. The surge still hums beneath it all, but it’s muted now, less insistent.
As we pack up, Beckett claps me on the back. “You sticking around?” he asks. “We could use you.”
I hesitate. The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. Around us, the town bears its wounds, smoke still rising in places, lights flickering back on one by one.
“I’m just here to help,” I say finally.
He nods, accepting it for what it is. “Still,” he says. “Good to see you.”
I watch him walk away, then glance toward the cluster of houses beyond the trees. Somewhere over there, Caroline might be awake, dealing with her own aftermath. The unwelcome thought twists in my gut.
I turn away before it can take root. I’m only here to help… and maybe to see my parents before I head back to my own life.
Potion for Clarity:
Steep mint, thyme, and rainwater. Sip slowly until thoughts settle.
Iwake with a dull ache pressing behind my eyes.
For a moment I stare at the ceiling, trying to place myself. The manor’s guest room always does this to me. My phone vibrates on the nightstand, then again, then again, until the screen lights up with a stack of missed calls and messages.
Media. Town council. A reporter I blocked two years ago and apparently forgot to keep blocked.
I scrub a hand over my face and exhale through my teeth. Of course this is what they’re circling. Not the damaged wards, not the burned acreage, not the people who spent the night coughing smoke out of their lungs or shaking through residual magic. Headlines want spectacle. They want blame. They want a quote that fits in a box.
My head pulses again, sharp enough that I mutter a curse into the empty room.
Noah’s name sits near the top of my call log. I spoke to him late last night, our voices raw with exhaustion. He informed me that most of the fires have been contained. A few structures damaged. No fatalities.
That last part mattered enough to repeat twice.
I close my eyes and let that settle. It could have been worse. That’s the truth I cling to while everything else threatens to tip sideways.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there longer than necessary, elbows braced on my knees. Today isn’t going to give me mercy.
Hospital first, to see the aftermath with my own eyes and hear it without filters. Then Foxglove & Finch. June needs to know what to watch for, and I need to know if anyone’s coming in reporting side effects from Oscar’s stupidity. Love potions at a quarry party. I still can’t quite wrap my mind around that.
I can’t believe that after all this, I’ll have to call a fucking community meeting. People need to hear it from me. They need to understand why the quarry is off-limits, why the wards matter, why one reckless night ripples outward.
The ache behind my eyes sharpens again. I swear under my breath and stand.
The shower helps, hot water pounding across my shoulders, steam fogging the glass. I brace my hands against the tile and let my head tip forward. For a few seconds I pretend the sound of water is enough to drown out everything else. It isn’t, but it takes the edge off. I dress in my uniform with practiced movements, fingers finding buttons and seams without thought. Badge. Belt. Boots. It all settles me, familiar as breath.
So much to do. So little time.
