Page 67 of Roaring Spell

“Since I realized they’re not disasters. They’re just... you.” He shifts closer. Not touching, but near enough that I feel the heat of him. “Your emotions made visible. It’s not a flaw.”

“Tell that to the people I’ve flooded.”

“You’ve spent years apologizing for what you are.” His hand finds mine in the darkness. “I’m asking you to stop.”

His palm is warm against my cold fingers. I should pull away—should maintain professional distance, should remember that we’re supposed to be watching for a Preserver agent, not having emotional conversations in the rain.

I don’t pull away.

“You mean every word you say to me.” It comes out barely above a whisper. The rain patters between us, steady and quiet.

“Yes.” He shifts closer. “I mean the ones I say and the ones I write. All of them. Even the clumsy ones.”

“Especially those.” My grip tightens on his hand. “Torin⁠—”

Movement in the house. We both freeze.

Valesh appears at her front door. Coat on. Bag in hand. Moving with purpose.

“She’s leaving.” Torin releases my hand—the loss of warmth immediate and unwelcome. “Which direction?”

“North.” I watch her turn onto the main road. “Toward the Overgrowth.”

“At this hour?”

“Nothing innocent happens in the Overgrowth at midnight.”

He’s already moving. “Stay close. Stay quiet. If anything feels wrong⁠—”

“Get behind you. I remember.” I fall into step beside him. “But, Torin? After this is over. We should talk about...”

“I know.” His voice is warm despite the circumstances. “We will. I promise.”

The Overgrowth is different after dark.

During the day, it’s wild and beautiful—aggressive gardens, strange paths, magic bleeding through at the edges. But at night, with the mist thick and the wild magic active, it becomes a different place entirely. Dangerous. Watchful. Alive in ways that make the hair on my arms stand up.

The trees seem to watch. The paths shift when you’re not looking. Reality feels thin here, flexible in ways that make my elemental senses scream.

A dryad materializes briefly at the edge of my vision—just a face in the bark, ancient eyes observing our passage before fading back into the wood. The tree spirits consider this area partially theirs. They watch. They remember.

“I feel it.” I press closer to Torin without meaning to. “The wrongness. It’s stronger here. Like the air itself is poisoned.”

The path twists beneath us. I could swear it wasn’t turning this direction a moment ago, but the Overgrowth has its own ideas about where visitors should go.

“Stay close,” Torin murmurs. “The paths here can separate people who aren’t careful.”

“Personal experience?”

“A training exercise when I was younger. Spent three hours trying to find my way back to the group. The forest found it amusing.” His hand finds mine in the darkness—anchor and reassurance. “I’m not losing you to aggressive shrubbery.”

Despite the tension, I almost smile. “Aggressive shrubbery?”

“The technical term. Very official.”

We push through and the Overgrowth fights us. Paths that were clear moments ago now twist in wrong directions. Branches grab at our clothes.

We lose sight of Valesh and try to catch up, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. She must have spelled the vegetation to allow her through, but no one else.