Familiar

by SlippinMickeys

Summary:

When Dana is cast out of her village for suspected witchcraft, she’s followed by a silent fox who shifts into a man after sundown. Bound by a mysterious curse and a connection neither of them understands, the two journey through a landscape steeped in forgotten magic. As Dana’s powers begin to stir and the bond between them deepens, they must decide whether to run from the fate that hunts them—or face what’s waking in their blood.

Notes:

I have always had this idea of writing a fantasy-like AU where unbeknownst to her, Scully is a witch and Mulder has been cursed as her familiar, spending his days, ‘Ladyhawke’-like, as an animal, and his nights as a man.

 

You'll recognize the first chapter as something I wrote as a one-shot and posted in my AU Prompt Collection where it collected dust. But I haven't been able to get this story out of my head and I'm going to post it here in it's own space while I mull where to go with it. I know I promised no new long-form new fics and I meant it; that said, this may or may not turn into something. And I won't have a lot of time to work on it. I'm still having fun with Funfetti and other prompts, but when the muse calls you, you have to follow that bitch, so: here it is.

It has not been through beta.

Chapter 1

Dana wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders and looked up at the green underbelly of the canopy. The oak leaves were still, but something stirred just above her head—a fluttering movement too deliberate to be the wind.

She reminded herself that feathered things flew in daylight, that she was safe. But deep down, she knew the truth: other things, darker things, flew at night. A swallow of unease tightened in her throat, and she quickened her pace. The sunlight, after all, was dying.

There was an old crofter’s cottage near the edge of the wood, just beyond the remnants of a Roman road. If she could reach it, she could rest. The roof would surely leak, and the place would be damp as a toad’s foot, but it was better than sleeping beneath open sky. Not with that creature still following her. Not with the shouts of witch still ringing in her ears.

She glanced back. The path was empty. But she felt it—the presence in the undergrowth, biding its time. Stalking her with patience.

It had followed her for three days now, slipping through the edges of her vision. Too fast to be human. It had been with her ever since she was run out of the village—ever since Alexander had whispered conjurer to the men bundling sheaves and to the women combing wool. It followed her like a shadow. Like the rumor that had driven her away.

She spit into the duff. Alexander.

He had been her friend once. He had proposed marriage—more than once—but she’d refused him. She hadn’t explained why. That she wanted more from life than to be some villein’s broodmare, bound to a landlord’s field. But he’d figured it out quickly enough. And the affection in his eyes had soured into hate.

A branch snapped behind her.

Her hand flew to the dagger at her belt, cursing her wandering thoughts. The blade—long and old as the Norsemen who once landed on their shores—thrummed faintly at her touch. She had named it Bite. Like a cat’s teeth, it never needed sharpening.

The creature was growing bold now. No longer satisfied with lingering in shadows. Dana stopped, spun on her heel, cloak flaring around her legs like smoke. The old game trail was quiet, but she caught a flash of amber in the dying light.

“Out, then!” she shouted. “Show yourself and let us have it out! I have a shadow already—I’ve no need for a new one!”

Only a low owl-call answered her.

She sniffed the air. Nothing. With a wary glance over her shoulder, she continued on, knowing she had little choice but to press forward.

She had no idea where she was going—only that it had to be far. Far from the village where she’d come of age. Left as a babe on a peasant doorstep, wrapped in high-quality wool with Bite tucked in the bottom of the creel. The basket had been woven with river grasses that didn’t grow anywhere in the whole of the county.

The name conjurer would cling to her now, like stink to a pig’s hide.

She had always stood out—red-haired in a village of mud-colored pelts. Maybe in one of the larger cities, she could disappear. Though how she’d feed, clothe, or shelter herself was another matter. She had only the few coins she’d sewn into the lining of her cloak last autumn.

Ahead, the trees broke. A field of barley stretched out, golden in the last rays of sunlight. Dusk was coming on fast, the sky streaked with grey and rose.

If she could reach the crofter’s cottage unseen, she might sleep—rest her aching feet, leave behind the feeling of being shunned. Of being hunted.

She crossed into the barley. A low stone wall marked the property line between one landowner and the next. The stalks were still green, their plaited bead-heads brushing against her arms with long whiskers—like a lover’s caress.

Or what she imagined a lover’s caress might feel like, if she had ever let one touch her.

Alexander hadn’t been the only man in the village to stare too long. Her adopted mother had warned her early: men’s eyes meant danger. Especially when the milites came through, collecting taxes in coin or wool. Those were the ones to avoid.

“Any man touches you without invitation,” Old Mildred would bellow, “you wait until he sleeps and slice off his cock!”

Dana almost smiled at the memory. Mildred had found her as a babe and raised her without help—no husband, just goats and chickens and a wicked aim with a ladle. She had died not five months ago, and since then, Dana’s world had unraveled.

Over a hill and through a rye field she walked, ducking under a stile. The sky pinked. The first stars blinked into being.

There—at the bottom of the dale—stood the cottage. Framed on two sides by thick old elms.

She picked up her pace, letting the slope carry her downward. The feeling of being watched thickened. The urge to draw Bite was nearly overpowering.

Almost there.

She reached the door—and then stumbled over a root hidden beneath the tall grass. She landed hard, jarring her shoulder and bruising her hip.

Padded footsteps. A branch cracked.

Dana’s breath caught as she raised her eyes.

A large fox—with a pelt the same red as her own hair—darted behind one of the elms just as the sun dropped below the horizon, blinding her.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

When her vision cleared, the fox was gone—and a man stood in its place.

Scrambling upright, she drew Bite in one smooth motion, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. The blade gleamed, deadly and steady.

The man didn’t move. He was young—the same age as her, or perhaps a year or two older. With the sunset still glowing behind him, his hair looked golden, like the fox’s. But as the light faded, she saw it was brown. His chin was strong, his nose long and slightly crooked—enough to lend his face character. He was tall. Nearly as tall as the sheriff’s gelding back home. 

“Hullo,” he said. His voice was light.

Dana said nothing. She flicked her wrist, making the blade glint. Let him see she knew how to use it.

“You’re the one the villagers call Dana,” he said, his tone low and pleasant.

But Dana knew pleasant tongues could hide sharp teeth.

“I’m the one they call witch,” she hissed, hoping to scare him off.

He didn’t retreat. He grinned.

She waited for him to step forward, to strike. Instead, he leaned against the elm with the air of someone who had all the time in the world.

“You’ve been following me,” she said at last. She kept Bite raised.

He shrugged. She bristled.

“You don’t deny it?”

Another shrug. “Following you is more an act of self-preservation than pursuit.”

Her fear was starting to turn. Not to trust—but to irritation.

The fox she had feared was a man. Or perhaps something in between. She had been confused, and confusion made her angry.

You are too intelligent, Mildred used to laugh. Stupid people are happier. Smart people are always vexed.

“You are Dana, then?” he asked.

“Do you plan to turn me in to the witch-slayers?”

His expression darkened. “I plan nothing of the kind.”

She studied him. His easy posture. The long fingers. The dark hair on his forearms. She didn’t lower her blade yet, but the edge of her panic dulled.

“Then I am Dana,” she said. A beat passed. She sheathed Bite.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied, clearly relieved.

“You now know my name,” she said. “Tell me yours.”

Now that the light had faded, she could see him more clearly. His eyes were kind. His clothing—a flaxen tunic dyed the color of winter leaves—was simple, well-made.

“I only know what they called me in the village,” he said, voice laced with something like longing.

“And what’s that?”

“Fox,” he said, sheepishly.

Gooseflesh bloomed along her arms.

“You have no memory?” she asked.

“I have knowledge,” he said carefully. “But no past that I can name.”

“You sound like me,” she murmured.

His gaze sharpened. “You have no past?”

“I have a story with no beginning,” she said. “And lately, I’m called only witch.”

“The villagers don’t know what a witch is,” he said. “You’re not what they think.”

“I’m not,” she agreed, lifting her chin.

“But a witch you are,” he said, stepping closer. “And I? I am your familiar.”

Chapter 2

“I am your familiar,” the man said.

Just like that. As if he were informing her the sky was blue or her boots were muddy.

Dana stared at him. Not blinking. Not moving.

Then, finally: “No. You’re a lunatic.”

The man didn’t react. He only leaned back against the tree, folding his arms like he had all the time in the world.

She unsheathed Bite once more, holding it up between them.

“Who are you, really?” she hissed. When he didn’t answer, she went on. “You’re a man. All men come from somewhere. Who are you?”

For the first time, something dark crossed his features. Not anger or aggression, but genuine sadness. Confusion.  

He pushed off the tree and she took a step back. 

“Do you know what a familiar is?” he asked. 

She licked her lips nervously. Of course she’d heard the stories. But that’s all they were–stories. 

“A witch’s…assistant,” she said, her voice a mix of distaste and insecurity. 

The man threw his head back and laughed. Not used to being wrong or laughed at, a sour feeling tipped into her belly and she felt a flare of anger. 

He seemed to sense this, and humbled his laugh, taking a breath and looking at her kindly. 

“Not quite,” he said. “A familiar is an entity or spirit that assists, protects and serves. We are magical allies, bound to our witch by spell, ritual or mutual choice. We are extensions of our witch’s power.”

Dana, still put off, laughed at him. “An entity or spirit?” she scoffed. “You look an awful lot like someone who will bleed when I put Bite through your belly.”

“I am that,” the man said, quite seriously. “But I’m other things, too.” 

A zip of something, fear, maybe–excitement–fizzed through her, unbidden. 

She swallowed. “A familiar,” she said, trying the word out on her tongue. “And you’re saying you’re mine?”

“I am.”

She scoffed, loud and sharp. “I’m not a witch.”

“You’re changing,” he said calmly. “Your blood called me.”

Dana froze—not visibly, not enough for him to see, but something inside her went still. Like a sudden breath held too long.

There was a faint… something. An echo. As though a harp string had been plucked deep beneath her skin, too soft to name, too strange to admit.

She didn’t like it.

Not the words. Not the feeling. Not the way it lingered for a moment too long, like a scent in the air she couldn’t place.

She forced it away, dragging her thoughts back into familiar terrain.

“My blood,” she echoed, her voice flat.

“Yes. You’ve come into power, whether you want it or not. And that power seeks what it’s been denied for too long.”

Dana snorted. “Well, it should’ve sent for a goat or a chicken. That would’ve been more believable than… whatever you are. And better eating, too.”

He smiled faintly at that, which only irritated her more.

“I don’t want magic,” she muttered. “I want a roof that doesn’t leak, boots that don’t blister, and to not be chased out of villages by people with pitchforks.”

“And yet,” he said, voice quiet, “here I am.”

She tightened her grip on Bite. “You’ve been following me for three days. I thought you were an animal.”

“You were right,” he said. “Just not in the way you assumed.”

Her expression soured. “That’s meant to be helpful?”

“No,” he said. “Only honest.”

The boldness of him unsettled her more than any threat. He didn’t leer. He didn’t posture. He simply was —present and unafraid, as if he’d been waiting for her to catch up to something he already knew.

She yawned, too tired for riddles. Her body ached, longed for rest. 

“I need sleep,” she snapped. “And I won’t do it with a strange man nearby.”

“I’ll stay by the door,” he said. 

“You’ll stay outside of it,” she said, something in her feeling unease at the thought of him with her in close quarters. A push. But also a pull…

Low in the distance, thunder rumbled. 

“You’d leave me outside in the rain?” he asked, tossing a look over his shoulder in the direction of what appeared to be a growing storm. 

Damn right she would. But before she could tell him so, he went on.  “When the sun rises, I’ll be gone.”

“Gone?” she asked, suspicious.

His mouth quirked again. “In a manner of speaking.”

Thunder rolled low and in the ever darkening sky, she could see the flashes of lighting. Mildred had raised her to be cautious. But she’d also raised her to be kind. 

She scowled. “If you so much as breathe in my direction while I sleep, I’ll gut you and feed you to the crows.”

He bowed his head, as if accepting a sacred vow.

Dana turned and walked toward the ruined cottage. The door hung crooked on its frame, but the walls held, and the hearth hadn’t collapsed. It was more than she’d had in days.

She crossed the threshold and dropped to the far corner of the room. Her cloak wrapped tightly around her, Bite resting across her knees. She kept her eye on him—this supposed “familiar”—as he settled cross-legged by the door, hands folded neatly in his lap like a monk.

She didn’t trust him.

And she sure as hell didn’t believe him.

A familiar? What nonsense. She wasn’t magical. She was unlucky. Unwanted. Raised by a goat-keeper who taught her how to gut rabbits and punch a soldier in the throat if he got too close.

Magic was fairy-story rot. The kind of thing used to excuse fear and fuel bonfires. The kind of thing shouted at girls who stood out too much or spoke too plainly.

Still, her eyes felt heavy. Her bones ached. Her hip throbbed from the fall. The weight of exhaustion finally tipped the scales, and she let herself slide down the wall until her eyes fluttered shut.

She dreamed of fire. Of rivergrass woven into impossible shapes. Of a voice she couldn’t place whispering her name again and again.

Dana.

Dana, wake.

When she stirred, the room was still dark, though she could see the hint of dawn through the thin thatch above her. Around her, the air felt changed. Lighter.

She blinked, sat up slowly.

The man was gone.

Her hand flew to Bite.

There, beside the door, curled like a sleeping ember, was a fox.

Its fur was thick and red—red like hers. Its ears twitched as it watched her, golden eyes calm and patient.

Dana’s breath caught in her throat.

It hadn’t come in through the door. There were no tracks on the floor. No sound had woken her.

The man had vanished.

The fox had appeared in his place.

She stood slowly, knees stiff, cloak falling from her shoulders.

The fox didn’t move.

It simply looked at her, head tilted slightly, as if waiting.

“No,” she whispered.

The fox blinked.

“This… this isn’t happening.”

She looked around the room, half-expecting someone to jump out and laugh. A cruel joke. A hallucination brought on by hunger and grief.

But no one came. And the fox remained.

She stared at it for a long, silent minute.

Then, slowly, she sank back to the floor and stared into the fireless hearth.

“I’m not a witch,” she said quietly.

The fox didn’t answer.

But it didn’t leave either.

Chapter 3

Notes:

I don't know how long the muse will stay with me, but I'm having SO MUCH FUN.

When Dana opened her eyes, the first thing she registered was the stillness.

No birdsong. No wind. Just the faint creak of the cottage settling around her.

The second thing she registered was the fox.

It sat by the door where the man had been—curled in a tight ball, tail wrapped neatly over its paws, ears alert. Watching her.

She blinked, unsure if she was dreaming.

The fireless hearth, the moldy stone walls, the lopsided stool in the corner—all unchanged. Her cloak still wrapped around her shoulders. Bite still resting at her side.

But he was gone.

And the fox was here.

She sat up slowly. Her muscles ached from the night on the stone floor, but her heart beat just a little too fast, thudding at the base of her throat.

The fox didn’t move.

She stared at it.

It stared back.

It had the same color fur as her hair. The same golden-amber eyes she thought she’d seen flash between the trees the day before.

“No,” she whispered.

The fox tilted its head.

Dana stood, too quickly. Her cloak caught on a rough edge of the stone wall and she yanked it free.

“This isn’t happening,” she muttered.

The fox blinked.

“I didn’t see what I thought I saw. You’re just a fox. That’s all.”

It stood now, tall for its kind, and shook out its coat. Calm. Patient.

Just a fox , she told herself again. Her mouth was dry.

And yet... no part of her reached for Bite.

She didn’t want to believe it. She wouldn’t believe it.

The man had been strange. Possibly mad. A traveler playing tricks. A bit of forgotten folklore with too much charm in his smile.

He couldn’t have— hadn’t —turned into this.

That wasn’t how the world worked.

Dana grabbed her things, slinging her pack over her shoulder and stepping out into the grey morning. The air was damp and earthy, laced with the scent of moss and old bark. Her breath misted faintly.

She didn’t look back until she’d passed the edge of the cottage clearing.

The fox padded after her, silent as a shadow.

“Fox,” she addressed the animal, who pulled his head back and sneezed dismissively. She held her head even higher. “Don’t follow me.”

It stopped.

“Go back to your den. Or find a henhouse to raid.”

The fox sat down and wrapped its luxurious tail primly around its feet. 

Dana stared at it for a long moment. Then she turned and walked on.

The path twisted through the woods, dappled with damp leaves and deer tracks. She hadn’t gone far before she heard the soft pat of paws behind her.

She didn’t stop. Another mile. Another glance over her shoulder.

Still there.

And worse—every time she tried to convince herself it was just a clever animal, her mind betrayed her.

You saw him. You saw the fox vanish behind the tree. You saw the man emerge.

Her jaw clenched.

This was how madness started. She knew that. Isolation. Grief. Strange dreams. Talking animals. It wouldn’t be long before she’d start seeing signs in the smoke or singing to ravens.

Maybe the villagers had been right. But she wasn’t a conjurer or a witch; she was simply mad. A woman who saw things that shouldn’t be there. Someone who flew over the cuckoos nest. 

And yet… she didn’t send him away again.

Not really.

By midday, she’d stopped pretending he wasn’t there.

She took her noon meal—half a loaf of hard bread and a piece of dried apple—on a fallen log beside a stream. The fox kept his distance, sitting across the clearing, head turned slightly as if listening to some sound she couldn’t hear.

He never begged. Never approached.

But when she stood again and started walking, he rose and followed. The rhythm of his paws behind her became a strange sort of comfort. By the time the sky turned lavender and the sun began to lower behind the trees, Dana realized she was no longer trying to lose him.

She stopped beside a tumbled stone wall, the remains of some ancient farm, and leaned against it. The wind had picked up, tugging at her cloak and hair. She rubbed her shoulder where the bruise from yesterday still throbbed faintly.

The fox stood at the edge of the treeline, barely visible in the shadows.

She narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t believe in magic,” she said, more to herself than him. “I don’t believe in witches.”

The fox didn’t move.

“And I sure as hell don’t believe in familiars.”

The wind rustled the trees in reply.

“But if you are him…” she swallowed, throat dry. “If you are…”

She didn’t finish.

She turned her face away from the fox and stared down the old path, watching the sky shift slowly from lavender to deep indigo. The first star blinked into view.

Behind her, the fox disappeared into the trees.

She waited.

A moment passed.

And then—

Footsteps. Light, careful. Human.

She didn’t turn around.

“Evening,” came his voice.

Dana closed her eyes.

And said nothing.

Chapter 4

The fire crackled low, its embers whispering to the roots beneath them. In the last day, Dana had started sensing things more acutely—sounds that once slipped past her notice now pressed at the edges of her awareness. The quiet murmur of wind in the leaves felt sharper. The rustle of feathers overhead, once subtle, now clamored like drums. Even birdsong had grown into a riotous chorus, loud enough to drown her thoughts.

She sat hunched against a log, arms looped around her knees, cloak drawn tight. Across from her, the man who called himself Fox stretched out with his back to a mossy stone, long legs crossed and hands open, palms to the stars.

She hadn’t decided whether or not he was dangerous.

But she was tired.

Too tired to argue with the strange comfort of another body near the fire—even one she didn’t understand.

“You’re quiet,” he said, without looking at her.

“I like quiet.”

A flicker of a smile touched his lips. “You talk in your sleep.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Liar.”

His smile widened slightly, but he didn’t press. He just leaned his head back and gazed at the canopy above them.

The silence stretched again. Comfortable and taut.

Dana broke it this time.

“So—Fox,” she said, voice dry. “You remember anything? Where you’re from? Family? Real name?”

He lowered his gaze. “No.”

“No?”

“I told you. When I’m like this… A man. it’s like waking up new. I know I’m meant to be with you. I feel it in my blood. But the rest…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“You’re saying you don’t remember anything at all? But you somehow know you’re mine.”

“Yes.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It’s maddening.” The words came out raw.

He looked down at his hands then, flexing them as if they were foreign. “There’s something missing. I can feel the edges of who I am. But not the center.”

She studied him a long moment, then asked, carefully, “And when you’re… the other way?”

It was hard to admit that she believed that he changed from a fox to a man and back again with the sunset. Still…

He glanced up. There was something vulnerable in his expression now. “It’s different.”

“Different how?”

He hesitated. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t think the same way. But there are moments. Familiar smells. Places. Something in me… knows more.”

Dana leaned in, despite herself. “You remember more as a fox,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

He nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the fire. “It’s not remembering like you think of it. It’s… instinct. Recognition. I can feel things I can’t say.”

Fascinating, she thought. She had long wondered what animals thought. When the pastor in their parish talked about animals, he said they had no soul, but Dana had never really believed that. She’d looked into the eyes of too many of Old Mildred’s flock. Barn cats, shepherd dogs, even the square-shaped irises of her milking goats had life behind them. Secrets. Hopes. Fears. 

It was less hard to believe that an animal had recognition and reasoning than it was that the man before her could change shape. Despite what the local voice of God said. 

“And when you shift into a man?” she asked, hardly believing the words coming out of her mouth. 

“It slips away,” he said quietly. “Like trying to hold water in your hands.”

A breeze stirred the fire. Sparks danced toward the sky, then vanished.

Dana looked at him through the glow. There was no guile in his face. No charm now. Just frustration. Longing.

“Why follow me?” she asked.

His answer came without hesitation.

“Because I know I should.”

She wanted to laugh. Or argue. Or run.

Instead, she whispered, “And what if I don’t want you?”

He looked at her then, expression unreadable. “Then I’ll still follow. From a distance. If that’s what you need.”

The fire crackled again. A log split with a hiss.

She didn’t know what to say to that.

No one had ever followed her before—only chased her. Or turned away. Or whispered about her behind cupped hands or the pews in the local church. 

“You say you’re bound to me,” she said after a long pause.

“I am .”

“But I didn’t call for anything. I didn’t summon you.”

Wasn’t that how it was supposed to work? She didn’t believe she was actually a witch, but she’d heard the whispers of the villagers. There was always a theme. 

“Not with words,” he said. “But something in you changed. Your blood reached out. And I came.”

That word again. Her blood . 

She was well past the time of her first bleeding. What did he mean ? 

Dana folded her arms tighter. “You make it sound like fate.”

“I don’t know if I believe in fate,” he said. “But I believe in you .”

That, more than anything, undid her.

She stood abruptly, turned her back on him. “It’s late. I’m sleeping. Keep your distance.”

He didn’t argue.

She heard him settle against the stone again, heard his breathing slow.

And though she didn’t want to, she lay awake far too long listening to it. Wondering what kind of man remembered nothing by moonlight, but everything by dawn.

And why the part of her that didn’t believe in magic still kept looking for signs in the stars.

Chapter 5

The day had no right to be as beautiful as it was.

The sun filtered gently through the canopy above, dappling the path in warm gold. The air was crisp, the kind that made her lungs feel clean and new. Somewhere far off, a thrush was singing, its mate answering from nearby. 

She bit into an apple, crunching through its taut red skin. The fruit had come from a tree she'd stumbled on earlier in the day, its branches bristling with tight, jewel-like knots of sweetness. Her pack was now heavy with the bounty. The taste—tart and a little wild—lingered on her tongue.

Fox trotted ahead of her, silent and alert. She’d grown used to his pattern: weaving ahead on the path, pausing now and then to glance back. Always aware. Always just ahead or beside her. Occasionally he got close enough to touch, and she longed to sink her hands into his soft fur, to run her fingers through the dense fluff of his coat–to scratch behind his black-tipped ears, to pet him–well, like a dog. But she never did. Knew, somehow, that she shouldn’t.

When they came to a bend, he stopped.

His body stiffened, nose lifted to the breeze.

She slowed mid-step.

Fox looked back at her. Not a glance, not a casual flick of his ear—but a look. Direct. Focused.

Then, without a sound, he slipped into the underbrush.

Dana froze.

Something tightened in her chest. He hadn’t run—he didn’t flee. He’d warned her.

She ducked behind a thick pine and crouched low, cloak drawn around her. Her hand found the hilt of Bite on instinct.

Moments passed.

Then came the voices—male, rough, loud in the quiet of the forest.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

They weren’t searching. Just passing through. Laughing like the kind of men who assumed they owned every place they stepped. She stayed down, hidden, until their footfalls faded and the woods grew still again.

Only then did she rise.

And only then did Fox reappear, a smudge of red fur near the treeline. He didn’t approach—just turned, and walked on.

By late afternoon, they reached a clearing where the light pooled like gold in a bowl of earth. 

Fox trotted through it, stopping once, mid step, his paw curled up like a pointer dog scenting prey. He lowered his nose and sniffed at something and then sat, tail wrapped around his feet. She approached. 

In the pool of light and next to Fox sat a smooth stone—too round to be natural, its surface veined with white mineral streaks and an odd marking scratched into its center.

Dana stared at it for a long time.

She didn’t want to touch it.

So of course she did.

The moment her fingers brushed its surface, something pulsed through her palm—not pain, not heat, just pressure, as if the stone had briefly drawn breath.

She jerked her hand back. Glanced at Fox. He was watching, unmoving. His eyes, she thought, were no longer gold. Had gone a little bit gray. 

Dana shook herself, looked at the stone again. Her eyes caught on the scratched symbol—nothing she recognized, but something that felt familiar, the way a song lingers long after it’s been forgotten.

Familiar, she thought, rueful. Familiar. 

She slid it into her cloak pocket without knowing why.

They moved on in silence.

Night came soft and fast, and by the time the sky turned lavender and silver, Dana was gathering kindling beneath a grove of firs. She knelt and struck the flint, coaxing a curl of smoke from the tinder.

“Don’t light it.”

She looked up, startled.

Fox stood just beyond the ring of trees, no longer a fox. Just a man, shirt wrinkled, eyes calm.

She blinked, fingers still on the stone.

“Excuse me?”

“No fire tonight,” he said, stepping forward, voice low. “It’s not safe.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know?”

He looked over his shoulder and into the forest, shrugged. “I just do.”

She stared at him, then at the tinder. It wasn’t catching anyway, damp with evening dew.

She sat back on her heels, frowning.

Fox lowered himself to the ground, hands behind his head casual-as-you-please.

“You’re welcome to my warmth,” he said gently. “It’ll be cold tonight.”

Dana’s eyes snapped to his. “Is that why you don’t want the fire? So I’ll crawl over and press myself against you in the dark?”

He didn’t flinch.

“No,” he said simply. “I said you were welcome to it. Not that I expected you to take it.”

She hated that she couldn’t tell if he was lying. Hated more that part of her believed he wasn’t.

She looked away. Then, after a moment, moved her cloak and sat down a little closer than usual.

Close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to.  

He didn’t comment.

Didn’t shift closer.

He just lay back on the moss, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on the stars.

The man was vexing, though she had trouble articulating why. She heaved a sigh, reached into the soft pack she carried, 

“Would you like an apple?” she asked him. She heard the hint of unkindness in her voice.

He sat up, looking at her intently. He either didn’t notice or politely ignored her tone. “Yes,” he said. 

She handed one over, watched as he palmed it in his hand, brought it to his nose to sniff. He closed his eyes reverently. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him eat. 

When he’d first joined her, she’d eaten the dry bread and crust of cheese she’d brought with her like a mizer hoarding gold–sneaking bites so that she didn’t have to share. But as the days wore on, she’d begun to just eat her small cache of food out in the open and he was never overly interested in it. Certainly not as a fox, but also neither as a man. 

She wasn’t sure what he did for food–she assumed that he–in fox form–snatched rabbits or squirrels and crunched them up quickly in the undergrowth. 

He raised the apple to his lips and bit into it with a crispy snap. The juice welled instantly, trailing down his fingers. He paused, blinked, looked surprised, and then crunched thoughtfully. Dana thought of the taste that must be flooding his mouth, and she licked her own lips. 

He took another bite. This one slower. 

His jaw worked carefully, and his brow furrowed–not with displeasure, but focus, like he was trying to understand the taste. As if sweetness was a riddle to be solved. His tongue ran briefly along the edge of the bitten flesh, and he stared into the distance, chewing in silence. 

When he finished, he glanced at the core in his hand as if it might still hold something else–one more secret, one more truth–and then looked up at her. 

“It’s… bright,” he said quietly. 

Dana blinked. “Bright?”

He nodded. “That’s the word it tastes like.”

She didn’t laugh. “You act as if you’ve never eaten an apple before.”

He shrugged. “If I have,” he said, “I have no memory of it.”

Dana looked at him a long time and then lowered herself to the forest floor, watched the Milky Way slowly grow with color, like dew slowly spreading up the hem of a bright dress. Beside her, Fox leaned back as well, his eyes also on the sky.  

Her limbs slowly warmed, her breath settling with the rhythm of the forest.

But her mind didn’t still.

Her fingers crept into her pocket and found the stone again.

She held it in her palm, feeling its smooth surface against her skin. The marking felt more pronounced than before, like it had etched itself deeper while in her pocket. 

A trick of the light, she told herself. 

Just imagination. Just strange luck.

But as her eyes drifted closed, and her breath evened out beside the quiet heat of a man who had never eaten an apple, who didn’t know his own name, Dana couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.

Not around her.

In her.

And whether it was a beginning or an ending, she couldn’t yet say.

Chapter 6

Dawn came with a hush.

A low, blue light had already settled into the trees when Dana opened her eyes. She was stiff and her extremities cold – autumn was coming and the nights, with their seeping chill, would only get colder. 

She glanced left. Curled beside her like a sentry, was Fox. Not the man. The creature.

He lay with his nose tucked into his tail, still as stone except for the flick of one ear.

Dana sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in her back, and touched her empty stomach.

It growled.

“I’m up,” she mumbled, half to herself. Her stomach had no business letting the world know she was hungry–she was well aware of it herself. 

Fox stirred beside her, rearing up with his hind in the air to stretch and then sitting down to watch her. 

She reached for her pack and dumped its contents onto the ground. The apples tumbled out, eight of them still intact, bruised and sticky where they’d pressed against each other overnight.

She picked the firmest and bit in.

The juice was sweet, the flesh crisp—but it didn’t hit the way it had yesterday. Apples were less joyful the third meal in a row.

She looked to Fox. “I don’t suppose you want one?” she asked, holding one out toward him. He leaned forward to sniff it, but then looked away with disinterest. 

“Suit yourself,” Dana shrugged, ate two herself, and then tossed the cores into the underbrush,  pulling her cloak tighter against the morning chill.

Her gaze fell to the rest of what she had: a skin of water, not quite full. The river stone with the strange carving. Bite, her sword-like dagger. A needle and thread tucked into a scrap of linen. A spare dress, one clean pair of stockings. Two twists of wool. A cracked flint. A comb. A pouch of salt. 

And aside from the coins sewn into the lining of her cloak, that was all. All she had to her name. 

Dana gestured to the pathetic display. “A sad inventory of what is rapidly becoming a sad life,” she said to him. 

Fox’s ears twitched.

She looked at him and shook her head at herself. She was talking to an animal like he was her confidant. If someone nearby were watching her, they would think her mad.  

“We will need to do something about our stores,” she went on. Mad or no, humans were social creatures, and if the fox was the only ‘person’ she had to talk to, well… she was going to do it. 

The animal tilted his head, blinking.

She sighed and gathered the items back into her pack, the quiet of the woods broken only by the low rumble of her stomach.

“I’m still hungry,” she said, half-heartedly, this time to no one in particular.

Fox stood abruptly. His nose lifted to the wind, and then—without so much as a glance—he darted off into the trees.

Dana stared at the spot where he’d vanished. Somehow she knew he hadn’t done it because he sensed a threat–he would give her a pointed look before darting off, if that were the case. 

She stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt, and began repacking slowly. Maybe he had finally tired of her company. Maybe she was alone again.

Overhead, a raven landed on a thin branch with a creaking flutter. It watched her, its eyes like polished beads. She gave it a quick glance, watching as it blinked once and flew away. 

She relieved herself behind a tree, checked the clearing for signs of her stay, then began to sweep away some of the broken twigs she’d gathered for the fire that never got lit.

She was just slinging her pack over her shoulder when she turned—and froze.

Fox was back, standing before her with a fat rabbit in his mouth, which he dropped at her feet. 

Dana blinked. “Is… is that for me?”

Fox stepped back and sat, his tail curled around himself.

She crouched and picked up the rabbit by its ears, inspecting the kill. It was clean. The neck broken, not torn. A few tooth marks near the spine, but the body was intact.

She looked at him. “Well,” she said, rather stunned. 

He looked pleased with himself, in the way only a fox can. Perhaps it was worth having a familiar, she thought, if this is what they could do for you. 

She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I—well, I can’t eat it raw.”

Fox didn’t move.

Dana hesitated. “Last night you said it wasn’t safe to make a fire. Do you suppose it’s safe now?”

The animal sniffed the wind. Looked around. Met her eyes.

“Right,” she muttered. “We need to find a better way of communicating, you and I.”

Dana studied the woods around them herself. It seemed safe enough. They hadn’t encountered a soul and were still miles from any village or city. She looked back at Fox. He didn’t seem uneasy. And if he wasn’t worried…

She began collecting dry twigs and leaves. Every so often she glanced at him. He hadn’t moved. If he bolted, so would she.

The fire took quickly this time. She skinned the rabbit with the efficiency of someone who had grown up in the shadow of hunger, quartered it, and fashioned a crude spit from branches.

While it cooked, she sat across from Fox and studied him.

He was smaller than a dog, but longer in the body, his tail thick and impossibly lush. His coloring was rich—burnished red with black legs and white at the throat, the fur so fine it shimmered when the light hit just right. His eyes were amber. Intelligent. Watchful.

She’d only seen a fox up close once, years ago, when a farmer passed Mildred’s cottage with one slung over the back of his wagon. Dana had been eight. At the time, she hadn’t thought anything of it. Foxes were known to be the bane of farmers, and they’d lost a few chickens themselves. But now, thinking back, something about the memory made her shiver. 

When the rabbit was done, she burned her fingers pulling it from the spit. But it was delicious. Greasy and smoky and better than anything she’d eaten in days.

Fox didn’t ask for a share, just watched her eating with a kind of canine satisfaction.

After, she kicked dirt over the fire and scattered the ashes. She hid the bones under a pile of stones and scrubbed her hands in the dew.

She felt stronger. Warmer. Sharper.

As they began to walk again, the thought rose in her like a splinter working to the surface:

She had no plan.

She was walking without aim, with no destination and no real knowledge of what she even wanted to find. Safety? Shelter? A sign?

“We can’t just keep wandering,” she said to Fox as he trotted ahead. “We need a destination. A purpose. A goal.”

She was about to say more when she heard it.

Faint. Distant. Musical.

Bells.

Her whole body stilled.

She turned her head, straining. There it was again—far off, too far to make out clearly, but unmistakable.

She looked at Fox.

“I think,” she said carefully, “we may finally have an aim.”

Fox twitched his ears and trotted ahead without hesitation.

***

High above the thinning treetops, a raven shifted its claws along the rough bark of a pine branch. Its dark feathers ruffled in the rising wind, a shimmer of iridescent blue catching the first strong rays of morning light.

Far below, the young woman moved through the underbrush, her cloak brushing the leaves, the fox trailing at her heels. She spoke to him as though he understood her—soft, human words tumbling out into the wild.

The raven cocked its head, one gleaming eye trained on the pair. It listened. It watched.

It did not follow. Not yet.

It would not do to be seen by the fox.

Only when the girl and her companion had disappeared beyond the line of trees, her voice lost to the hush of the forest, did the raven spread its wings. With a soundless beat, it rose into the air, its shadow skimming across the leaves like a falling cloak.

It climbed higher, disappearing into the morning sky.

Her master would want a full report.

And not a word of it could be late.

Chapter 7

They came to the edge of a long field just as the sun crested the western hills, throwing gold across the grass. Dana slowed her steps and raised a hand to shield her eyes.

A spire.

It rose straight and solemn into the sky, its pointed crown tipped with a simple iron cross. Below it, low stone buildings clustered within a high wall, the pale stones catching the last warmth of day.

A monastery.

Dana’s heart sank.

She’d been hoping for a village—a place with a proper tavern, a washhouse, maybe someone willing to trade bread for coin or mending. Her clothes were stiff from days on the road and smelled faintly of woodsmoke and sweat. She was down to one clean pair of stockings. And though the rabbit Fox had brought her had taken the edge off her hunger that morning, the thought of something hot, rich, and salted made her chest ache.

She exhaled and looked down at the fox, who had come to stand beside her. His ears twitched as the low, echoing clang of bells rang out across the field, slow and rhythmic, calling the monks to prayer—or supper.

“Supper,” she muttered.

They found a rise not far from the field, a hill that gave them a clearer view of the stone walls and cloister garden beyond. Dana sat beneath an old, knotted tree and let her pack drop beside her with a heavy thud. She stared at the monastery for a long while.

No villagers. No market. No refuge.

Just discipline. Chants. Silence.

Fox lay in the grass near her feet, tail tucked neatly against his flank.

Dana leaned back against the tree, letting her eyes fall closed. “Just a nap,” she murmured, half to herself, half to him, the low feeling of disappointment pulling her into the quietus of sleep. 

***

When she woke, the sun had fallen and dusk had settled like a veil. The air was cooler, soft with the scent of damp earth and crushed grass. For a moment she didn’t move—just listened.

No birdsong. No wind.

And no sign of Fox.

She sat up quickly, brushing hair from her face and looking around.

“Fox?” she called softly.

Nothing answered but the hush of early evening.

Her heartbeat picked up. She rose and turned in a slow circle, scanning the darkening trees and the slope of the hill.

Footsteps crunched behind her.

Dana bolted behind the tree.

“Dana?”

She blinked.

It was Fox. In human form now, his voice laconic and unmistakable. She stepped from behind the trunk just as he came into view, carrying a heavy-looking sack slung over his shoulder. He looked slightly winded, his cheeks pink with effort or excitement.

“You gave me a fright,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest.

His mouth twitched into a smile. “Come.”

He led her down the far side of the hill, away from the monastery, to a shallow clearing bordered by blackberry brambles. The air was still and safe-feeling, the trees sheltering them from view.

“Start a fire?” he suggested, and dropped the sack to the ground with a soft thump.

Dana hesitated, studying him in the growing dark. He looked neither urgent nor afraid. Just... pleased with himself.

She knelt and began to gather sticks. A few minutes later, a small, merry fire crackled between them, licking at the twilight.

Fox knelt by the sack and began to unpack it.

First came a thick wool blanket—coarse but warm, the kind woven by hand. Then two loaves of bread, each round and golden with crust. Finally, a bottle sealed with a cork, the earthenware heavy and cool to the touch.

Dana’s stomach let out a very audible growl.

He handed her one of the loaves.

She tore into it without hesitation.

It was still warm.

The crust cracked beneath her fingers, and the inside was soft and fragrant, the scent of yeast and flour and thyme washing over her like something holy.

“Where did you get this?” she asked between bites.

“The monastery,” he said simply.

She froze. “You bought it from them?”

He gave her a look.

“Not exactly.”

She stopped chewing. “You stole it?”

He shrugged. “They won’t miss it.”

“Fox,” she hissed, lowering the bread. “What if you were caught? What if we’re caught now? They hang thieves.”

He tilted his head, the movement very like the one he did in his fox form. “Would you like me to take it back?”

She stared at the bread in her hands. Swallowed. “No.”

He nodded, as if that settled it, and broke his own loaf in half. “I was careful,” he added.

She looked at him, watched the careful way he ate. 

“How did you get in?” she asked, tearing off another piece of bread.

“There’s a hole beneath the wall. Just wide enough for… the other me.”

He smirked and took another bite.

“I went under it, waited until moonrise, then put on a robe I found drying outside. If you wander around like you belong, people tend to ignore you.”

She stared at him, unsure whether to be horrified or impressed.

“And out?” she asked.

“I jumped the fence.”

He must be as agile as his other form.

She looked at the bottle. “What’s in there?”

“Don’t know.” He handed it to her.

She pulled the stopper and sniffed.

Beer.

She took a cautious sip, then a bolder one. It was smooth and malty, and it warmed her all the way down.

She handed it to him. He took a swig, then grimaced.

“You don’t like it?”

“I’m not sure.” He took another tentative sip. “It makes my stomach feel… strange. Warm.”

She chuckled and took the bottle back. “That it does.”

She leaned back against a fallen log, the bread in her lap and the fire crackling cheerfully at her feet. The light from it danced across his face, picking out the fine lines of his jaw, the copper in his hair, the gold in his eyes. He looked impossibly at ease for someone who’d just burgled a monastery.

She noticed he wasn’t eating as quickly as she was.

“Not hungry?”

He fidgeted uncomfortably. 

“I eat in my other form,” he eventually said, shrugging. “And I eat well.” 

He seemed to consider what he’d just said for a moment. “I should save this for you,” he went on, setting the bread aside. 

Dana shook her head. “It will go stale. And it’s warm and delicious. Enjoy it. Please.” 

He took a moment and then nodded, pulling himself another bite. 

For her part, Dana took another pull from the bottle. The fire, the food, and the beer worked their alchemy on her nerves. Her body warmed. Her shoulders loosened.

She felt… content. Against all odds.

Curiosity stirred.

“So,” she said, “tell me about yourself.”

Most of the time she spent in his company, he was a fox. The time spent with him as a man, she was mostly asleep. She want to know everything.

He glanced at her sideways. “How can I tell you what I don’t remember?”

She studied him, the strong line of his nose, the way the firelight warmed his skin with a healthy glow.

“Then tell me what you do remember,” she said gently.

He looked into the flames. After a long, quiet minute, he looked up.

”I woke up in a field outside your village with the unholy eye of a ram staring me down,” he said. 

Chapter 8

Notes:

Thanks to those of you who popped in to comment!

He woke with the thick, grassy musk of sheep pressed into his sinuses and a sharp pain blooming in his ribs. The scent—warm, heavy, a little sour—seemed to anchor him to the earth, and when he blinked his eyes open, he found himself staring straight into the oddly unblinking face of a ram. Its yellow eyes regarded him with mild contempt before the creature huffed, gave a flick of its curled horns, and wandered off toward the rest of the grazing flock.

The man lay there for a moment, dazed, wracked with thirst, listening to the faint bleating of the animals, the stir of wind through tall grass, and the soft thump of hooves against earth.

Then, slowly, he sat up.

His breath hitched. Pain bloomed deep along his side—a massive bruise, already swelling beneath the fabric of his tunic. He brought a hand to the cloth. It was soft, finely made, dyed the orange-brown of old leaves. Familiar, somehow. But not his.

Nothing was his.

He looked around the field, the hills, the clumps of bramble and broken rock—and none of it meant anything to him. Not a tree. Not a birdcall. Not the feel of the dirt under his knees. It was all strange.

A rising unease crawled up his spine.

He didn’t know where he was.

More terrifying: he didn’t know who he was.

His mind, when he reached for it, came up empty. There were no memories waiting behind his eyes. No name. No past. Only a vague hum of something lost—like trying to remember a dream that slipped away at dawn.

Panic crept closer now, curled tight in his throat. He rose on unsteady legs and stumbled down a slope, toward a faint cluster of buildings nestled at the edge of the field.

It was a village. Small. Tidy. After dark.

He walked along the lane, trying to place buildings, trying to piece together something–anything–coherent.

Most of the shops had already shuttered for the night. Wooden stalls stood empty along a crooked lane. Here and there, the low flame of a guttering candle glowed dimly behind warped glass. A pair of women passed him in the street, baskets under their arms, and gave him a look that was more wary than kind.

He didn’t recognize them. And it was clear they didn’t recognize him. 

He wandered, parched and disoriented, until he reached the village square. There, beneath a crooked old tree, stood a stone well. He staggered to it and dropped the pail, the rope rasping through his palms. It hit water with a soft splash.

He hauled it up and drank. Greedy, shaking gulps. Cold water spilled from the corners of his mouth, ran down his chin, soaked the tunic.

When he stood, the world felt clearer. But only slightly.

The emptiness inside him remained.

Eventually, he drifted toward the blacksmith’s shop—silent, the forge gone cold. Behind it, in the straw-sweet dark of the stable, he found an empty stall. He curled into the corner, pulling his legs against his chest, and closed his eyes.

Sleep came slow. Heavy. Like sinking through water.

 

*X*

Hay.

He smelled hay. And horse. The sharp tang of dung, musty horse piss soaked into straw and the hard-packed earth.

Fox stretched, slow and sinuous, letting the scent curl around him. Dust on his whiskers. Pain in his side. A new place.

From nearby, a sound. Movement.

His body froze, every muscle taut. One ear twitched.

A woman entered the stall. He saw her boots first. Then her eyes.

She screamed.

The pitchfork glinted. She lunged.

He bolted.

The first stab caught nothing but air. The second missed his tail by an inch. He was through the door, under the rail, sprinting.

Shouts. Cries. A dog barked somewhere.

He ran low and fast, his belly brushing dirt, claws scrabbling for purchase on the packed road. Hooves clattered in alarm as he cut through the square. A child yelped. A man shouted, “Fox!”

He didn’t belong here.

His heart hammered. His blood was wild.

He didn’t belong.

Out past the edge of town, the woods waited. He slipped through the outer scrub, vanished into a pocket of brush, and dropped to the ground, breath heaving.

Stillness.

He listened.

No chase.

Slowly, his panic eased.

The scents returned.

And there—faint, strange, calling—a thread of something on the breeze. Not food. Not danger. Something else.

He tasted it on his tongue. Human, yes—but not quite. Not fully. Or more fully human than the rest of them. 

It was warm and sharp and alive.

It made something in his chest ache.

He followed it.

Low to the ground, silent as wind, he crept through tall grasses, over rocks, through field and fern and briar. The scent pulled him onward. Over one hill. Then another.

He paused at the ridge.

Below, in a quiet fold of land, stood a cottage. Weather-worn. Tidy. A small barn leaned against its side. Goats meandered the pasture. Chickens pecked at the yard.

He licked his chops.

One of those birds would be easy. A gift from the gods.

Then she stepped out.

The scent of her bloomed through the air, carried by the wind and into his snout. Like a thread stitched between her body and his nose, it had pulled him to her. 

She lifted her hand against the sun.

Short. Flame-haired. Light-footed. Bright.

His ears flattened. His breath stilled.

Her scent was stronger here, layered with herbs and soap and earth. She smelled like old things. Wild things. Things half-remembered in dreams.

She was the thing that called him.

Memory came to him, unfolding like the petals of a soft flower. In the daylight he was one thing. In the night another. And her. She was the reason for all of it. And she had no idea. 

He sat. And watched. And waited.

Chapter 9

The fire was mellow now, coals glowing beneath a thin veil of ash. The air had turned cool, crisp with the promise of autumn. Dana had pulled the wool blanket around her shoulders, but the warmth from the beer and the nearness of Fox made the chill bearable. Almost pleasant.

He had drifted closer to her as they sat–the bottle passing lazily between them. Her fingers brushed his when she handed it back. She didn’t flinch.

Fox leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs out toward the fire. The tunic he wore had bunched at the sleeves, revealing his forearms, lean and sinewed. The light picked out the golden flecks in his eyes. He was watching her.

“So you woke up in a field outside my village, you can’t remember your name, or who you are,” Dana said, chewing the edge of what remained of her loaf, “but you can climb a fence, steal from monks, and leap it again dressed like one.”

Fox grinned and took the bottle from her. “Apparently.”

“I can’t decide if that makes you dangerous or useful.”

His grin widened. “Why not both?”

She scoffed and leaned forward to prod the fire with a stick, sending a small flurry of sparks up into the dark. “Well, if you’re going to be my familiar, ‘useful’ seems less problematic and more fitting of your station.”

Fox raised an eyebrow. “Suddenly you believe me now?”

Dana regarded him, more tipsy than she should be. “If a man tells me he’s here for the sole purpose of doing my bidding, who am I to argue? You said that,” she hiccuped. “Did you not?”

“I did say that,” he said. “That I’m here to help.”

“What power I wield,” she muttered into the bottle, then took another swig.

Fox laughed. “And what bidding would you have your familiar do, exactly?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” Dana said, pointing at him with the mouth of the bottle. “You’re the one who showed up out of nowhere, claiming the title. So? What do witches use their familiars for?”

His expression softened, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Protection, maybe. Guidance. Magic, if the stories are true.”

“Magic,” she echoed. “Right.”

She leaned back, propping herself up on one hand. “Well, I don’t have any magic. So what does that make you? A very handsome traveling companion with an identity crisis?”

Fox didn’t answer right away. The fire crackled. The bottle was warm in her hand.

“I am your familiar,” he said finally. “That’s all I know.”

Dana looked at him for a long moment. “We make perhaps not the most promising pair,” she said. “A woman on the run and a man with no memory.” She looked down at the bottle. “‘Useful’ is not an apt description of our collective proficiency.”

“No,” he agreed, then smiled. “But I can hunt, I can steal, and I can keep you warm. I count that as three uses already.”

She laughed—a low, tired sound, tinged with something real. The word warm from his lips made her feel just that. 

She gave a rueful head shake. 

“A witch’s familiar,” she sighed, amused.

Fox’s voice dropped slightly, low and curious. “Do you believe it?”

She shrugged, suddenly finding a loose thread at the edge of the blanket very interesting. “Believe what?”

“That you’re a witch.”

“No,” she said. Too quickly. Then, “Maybe.” It was more than she’d ever admit sober.

In the last few days, with him, she’d felt a hidden potential, a hidden vigor underneath everything she said and did. An extra something like a spark at the end of a finger, sharp and quick, impossible to hold onto. But nothing she could claim to in the light of day. 

It was only because he’d suggested it, that was all. She could only sense and feel… it… because he’d suggested she could. 

The fire cast flickering shadows on her face, made her expression harder to read, she knew. But she wasn’t hiding. Not now. Not with the beer in her blood and the weight of the night pressing soft against her skin.

“If I were,” she said after a moment, “what would I even do with a familiar?”

“You’d command him.”

She snorted. “Oh, would I?”

“Absolutely,” he said, grinning. “Send him out to fetch herbs. Spy on enemies. Guard you while you sleep.”

“Are you planning to stand watch?”

“I already do.”

That sobered her. She looked up at him, caught something gentle in his face, unguarded in a way most men never were. Most men had layers. Masks. Games.

Fox had none. Or maybe they were all just lost along with his name.

“I don’t need guarding,” she said, quieter now.

“Everyone needs guarding sometimes.”

She didn’t respond. The truth of it sat too close to the place inside her where grief lived. The place where Mildred’s voice still echoed, warning her of men, of danger, of the world’s sharp edges.

Dana took a long drink and then handed the bottle back. “So what else can you do?”

Fox leaned his head to the side. “You mean besides transform and deliver stolen bread?”

“I mean,” she said, voice thick with something teasing and maybe a little dangerous, “if I’m supposed to command you, I need to know what’s in my arsenal.”

His smile curled at the edges, slow. He drank, then set the bottle down beside them. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t know. What do I want to know…”

She leaned forward, closing the distance between them a fraction. “What happens to you when you shift? Do you remember me? Do you remember yourself?”

Fox’s smile faltered. He looked into the fire, and the quiet stretched.

“As a man? I don’t remember much,” he said finally. “What I can retain from the day is just… residual instincts. Feelings. I remember hunger. Fear. Loyalty.”

“Loyalty?” she echoed.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “To you.”

The air went still.

Dana’s heartbeat thudded, louder than it had any right to. She told herself it was the beer. The fire. The fact that it had been a long time since she’d let anyone near enough to see her.

Fox reached out and took a strand of her hair between his fingers. He didn’t tug. Didn’t pull. Just let it slip free.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he said, voice rough. “But it doesn’t change what’s true.”

“And what’s true?” she whispered, a low, foreign ache swelling between her hips. Her stomach turned to butterflies.

He seemed to be leaning toward her. She swallowed, unsure if she wanted to laugh or lean in or run. The space between them buzzed like a bee hive. His face was close. Too close.

She felt a surge of something prickle under her skin and an instant later, his eyes glazed over. Not in lust or feeling or warmth, but with a hard, slate gray, like a sheet of ice had suddenly frozen over them. 

“One will fall,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, unlike him.

A chill swept over, a knowing sense of dread spreading throughout her body. And just as quickly the feeling was gone, as was the prickling surge she felt. 

When she looked back up at him, his eyes and face were warm again. 

“Dana?” he said, as though they were sharing a pillow. 

She pulled back from him. “What did you say?” The words came out as barely a whisper. 

He looked perplexed. “Us,” he said sheepishly, leaning back. “You asked what’s true, and I said ‘us.’ I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just… I know it to be true.” 

Had… Had she done that? Had she changed him? The prickle under her skin, the surge of raw feeling…

She stood quickly, the blanket falling off of her shoulders. 

“I need to–” she gestured toward the edge of the small wood like she was going to relieve herself. But really, what she needed was space and time to think. 

As she walked, the pocket she’d sewn into her dress grew warm–far warmer than it had any right to be–when she reached inside, she pulled out the smooth round stone. It was hot to the touch. Blazing. 

She flipped it over in her palm. The carved markings glowed an eerie, brilliant green—then slowly dimmed, fading with each step she took away from him, as if the stone itself were tethered to whatever strange magic had just passed between them.

Chapter 10

She’d come back to the fire the night before quiet and pensive. Distant. She settled on the other side of the flames with nothing but a muttered goodnight.

Fox lay awake, staring into the shifting glow, troubled. Had he said too much? Offended her somehow? He’d only spoken what he knew to be true—that the two of them were bound together. Of that, he was certain. He didn’t know how or why, but the bond was the one thread that never wavered, whether he walked on two legs or four.

The first night he had woken as a man, finding her standing on the cottage steps with the stars above her, that connection had pulled taut—like a bowstring drawn and never loosed. A tether, coiling tighter the longer he was near her.

At first he’d tried to tell himself it was only attraction. She was, he thought ruefully now, glancing at her sleeping face in the firelight, perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But it wasn’t that alone. The pull went deeper, into places desire alone could never reach.

Even the fox knew it. He could feel it when the fur bristled on his skin, when instincts sharper than his own memory fixed wholly on her. Loyalty, devotion, a thread running through them both that he had no name for.

And yet his mind was still a hollow place. At each shift—when day broke or night fell—there came a flicker of clarity, a brush of something vast that almost let him remember. Almost. The answers hovered close, like water shimmering through reeds, and then slipped away. What remained, always, was Dana. Her voice, her presence, her fire. She was the only constant.

He forced himself to sleep, though rest felt like a thief—stealing the hours he could have spent beside her. His heart longed for her company, while his mind told him he should be gathering every scrap of knowledge he could about why they were bound.

There were only three truths he carried with him: She was a witch. He was bound to her. He must protect her at any cost.

How or why—it eluded him. Until Dana began to ask questions, he had not dared to. His role was simple: protect, serve, help her come into her own. It was only when he began to realize that his feelings for her reached beyond loyalty and duty that everything grew complicated.

He rose early, stoked the fire so she wouldn’t wake cold, and sat watching as the sky turned from black to purple to rose. When the clouds on the horizon caught fire with dawn, he felt the tingling begin, crawling down his bones. The sun’s first rays touched Dana’s face where she slept, and the change surged through him.

For an instant, clarity seared him—bright, total. Not memory, but knowing. The sense that everything he was, everything he had lost, was suspended just beyond reach. And in the center of it all, the only truth that did not waver: her.

*** 

They stood on a rise overlooking a town. An actual town. Likely where the monastery sold its wares. Dana crossed her arms and drew her travel cloak tight as the breeze lifted hair from her face. Below, the place clung to the riverside like moss on stone, rooftops huddled under a low mist. Chimneys shouldered smoke into the gray, metal rang metal somewhere out of sight, and a warm, yeasty scent rode the slope up to meet her.

“I have to go in,” she said.

Fox—four-legged, silent—sat beside her with his tail curled neatly around his feet, ears flattened in clear disapproval.

“You can’t come,” she went on, gentler. “Not like this.”

It felt wrong to leave him after days with only his company, but a fox in a market was a problem waiting to happen—even one who knew shadows and alleys the way he did.

His ears twitched.

“There are too many people. You’d be noticed. And not because you’re a fox.” She hesitated, trying to name what she meant. “You don’t move like a wild one.”

He turned his head up to her. Golden eyes, steady and intent—understanding there, and worry too, and something taut she couldn’t quite read.

She crouched and placed her hand lightly on the top of his head, the first time she allowed herself to touch him. His fur was soft and wiry all at once. Thick. Warm. She wanted to luxuriate in it, press her face into his flank and huff his oily, wild scent. Instead, she gave him one pat and pulled her hand back. 

“I sewed coins into the hem of my cloak,” she explained. “Enough to get us what we need. A pack. Clothes. Food that isn’t burned on a stick.” She gave a soft smile. “I’ll be back before dark. Wait for me in the trees.”

He gave a short huff through his nose and padded off without further argument, vanishing between the trees like he’d never been there at all.

Dana stood alone for a moment longer, then turned and began the walk down the hill.

***

The town gate stood open, though two guards lingered near it. One was half-dozing, the other chewing a bit of something he probably called tobacco. Neither paid her more than a glance. She passed through with her hood low over her face and her hands hidden in her sleeves.

Inside, it was all noise and smell and motion.

Cobblestone streets twisted through the market district like veins. Chickens clucked from cages stacked against walls. Children ran barefoot. Smoke curled from forges and ovens alike. A woman with thick braids called out about goose eggs, while another waved a tray of woven talismans strung on twine.

Dana moved through it with purpose, stopping here and there, cautious with her coin but thorough. She purchased a tunic and leggings that actually fit her, a warm wool cloak in forest green, and a satchel of sturdy leather with a hidden inner pocket. She replaced her worn boots with a pair that hugged her calves and didn’t pinch her toes.

At a stall run by a stooped old man with ink-stained fingers, she found a small book of common plants and their uses. She bought it before she could talk herself out of it.

By afternoon, her coin purse was significantly lighter and her bag considerably heavier.

She sat on the edge of a public fountain to eat the roll she’d been given in exchange for a bit of help lifting crates at the baker’s stall. It was sweet and light and gone too fast. Her legs were sore from walking. The wind had picked up and with it came the scent of something more tempting than anything she'd eaten in weeks—roasted meat and fresh bread, spices, and the bitter tang of ale.

She followed the smell.

***

The tavern was called The Buckle and Thorn. Warm light poured from its windows, and laughter drifted from inside. It wasn’t the kind of place she normally would have entered, but the ache in her stomach outweighed her caution.

Inside, it was all wooden beams and smoke-stained rafters. A fire crackled in a great stone hearth. The scent of food wrapped around her like a spell.

She sat alone at a small table near the fire and ordered a trencher of stew, a hunk of brown bread, and a mug of watered wine. It might have been the best thing she’d ever eaten.

By the time she scraped the bowl clean and wiped her hands on the cloth tucked under the plate, her shoulders had dropped. Her limbs were warm. The fire behind her lulled her bones into something close to peace.

She sighed. Just for a moment, she let herself feel human.

Then she looked out the window and realized it was full dark.

Her heart climbed into her throat. Fox. He would be pacing, circling, searching the shadows near the road. She couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t safe for a young woman alone, and she didn’t have the coin for a room anyway.

Dana pushed back her bench and rose to leave—just as a shadow moved beside her.

A man sat down heavily on the bench, too close. He smelled of old ale and damp wool, the scent clinging to him like a second skin. His beard was patchy, more stubble than style, and the veins in his nose and cheeks suggested years of drink. His smile was wide and uneven, revealing crooked teeth stained the color of old parchment. It didn’t reach his eyes—small, sharp things that watched her with a predator’s intent masked behind clumsy charm.

His presence unsettled her. He wasn’t loud or leering, not yet, but there was something oily about him, something that made her stomach coil tight. He sat like he belonged there—like she belonged to his evening now, a prize caught by proximity. Dana could feel the heat of his body through the space between them, and though he hadn’t touched her yet, it felt like a violation. A slow panic bloomed beneath her ribs. The tavern’s warmth turned stifling. Her fingers itched toward the strap of her satchel, her legs tense, ready to flee—but her instincts warned her that sudden movement might only make things worse.

“Where you going off to, love?” he asked, voice thick with drink.

“I was just leaving,” Dana said, taking a half-step back. Her first thought was of Fox. In his absence she suddenly felt the sure safety of having him by her side. In either form.

The man reached out and grabbed her arm—hard.

“I think,” he said, his grip tightening, “you should stay for another drink.”

The words turned her stomach. She tried to pull free, but he held fast.

“I said I was leaving.” Bite was tucked into her satchel, lest the marketers saw it and wanted to barter for something other than coin. She'd never be able to get to it. 

“You don’t have to be so—”

Another hand appeared, closing around the man’s wrist like a vice. Pale fingers, long and strong, locked over sunburned skin. The drunk let out a hiss of pain.

“I believe,” a voice said, low, dangerous and familiar, “I heard the lady say she would like to leave.”

Chapter 11

She looked up into Fox’s face, a sense of relief so great that she felt her breath whoosh out of her.

But he wasn’t looking back at her. His eyes, fixed and steady, were on the man who had just let go of her arm. There was a steely resolve in the set of his jaw, and an anger in eyes so fierce that the burly man who had grabbed her—a man who weighed at least two stone heavier than Fox—nearly fell off the bench, his eyes wide with fright.

“I—I didn’t mean anything by it,” the man stammered, already retreating, hands up like a scolded child.

Fox said nothing. He simply took a slow step forward.

That was all it took. The man backed away fast, nearly tripping over a stool in his haste to get to the door. Someone at the bar gave a low chuckle, but no one intervened. No one wanted to get between whatever that was.

Dana didn’t realize she was shaking until Fox finally looked down at her.

“Are you all right?” His voice was softer now. Controlled. Still edged, but for her, not at her. 

He reached out and held her chin gently, lifting her face so that he could see her eyes. The second their gazes connected, something fizzing zipped through her and tears fell from her eyes, unbidden.

She nodded, then realized her throat was too dry to speak. She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

He wiped away the tears from her cheek without a word and then offered her a hand, palm open and steady.

She took it.

His fingers were warm, calloused. When he pulled her to her feet, he didn’t let go right away. Not until she’d found her balance.

“Come,” he said. “It’s not safe here.”

They didn’t speak until they were well beyond the town’s outer road, the torches at the gate fading behind them like distant stars. Her pack bounced lightly against her back, her new cloak flapping at her ankles in the wind. The road was muddy from the day’s traffic, but they walked side by side in silence, each step putting more distance between them and the tavern.

Only when the trees began to thicken again did Dana finally ask the question pressing at her chest.

“How did you get in?” she asked, thinking about the monastery. Had he crawled under the wall again? Had he followed her in fox form? His pelt would fetch a nice price, and the thought of him cowering before a man with a spear and greedy eyes made her stomach dip.

Fox didn’t look at her. “I walked.”

“But… you said you’d wait outside.”

“I did.”

“But you didn’t wait.”

“No.” His voice held no apology. “You were late. The sun went down. You didn’t come.”

She didn’t know whether to feel angry or grateful or something in between. “I was…” She was about to say ‘fine,’ but it would have been a lie.

“You weren’t,” he said quietly, hearing the word anyway.

Dana exhaled and stopped walking. He took a few more steps before realizing and turning back toward her.

“I would have handled it.”

He raised a brow, his expression unreadable in the low light. “Perhaps. But he shouldn’t have touched you. You didn’t want him to, and that’s reason enough.”

The words hit her square in the chest. They sounded simple. But no one had ever said them to her like that before. Not even Old Mildred. 

You didn’t want him to.

That’s reason enough.

Alexander would have laughed.

She didn’t realize her hands had curled into fists at her sides until she felt her nails biting into her palm.

Fox noticed. His gaze dropped to her hands, then lifted slowly to her face.

“I would have come for you sooner,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “If I’d known.”

Something hot bloomed in her throat, a mix of shame and something sharper—something like longing.

She turned away before it could reach her eyes.

“Come on,” she said gruffly. “We still have to find a place to sleep.”

They found a patch of forest not far off the road, just sheltered enough to break the wind. The stars had begun to show themselves, tentative and scattered, by the time the fire was lit.

Fox crouched beside it, sleeves pushed up, his hands steady as he adjusted the stones around the flames. He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

Dana pulled off her boots and wrapped herself in her new cloak. She was exhausted, every inch of her aching from nerves and walking and the weight of too much emotion held tight behind her ribs. But it wasn’t fear that lingered now—it was something else. Something quieter.

Fox sat across the fire from her, arms resting loosely on his knees, gaze fixed on the flames. There was something still and grounded about him in this form, like he was made for the night. For firelight and shadows and long silences that didn’t demand to be filled.

She tore off a piece of the bread she’d brought from the market and chewed slowly, her stomach only now beginning to unclench. Her limbs were still shaky. Her skin still prickled where the man’s hand had been.

But she wasn’t afraid anymore.

The fire cracked, sending a spiral of sparks into the sky.

“Thank you,” she said softly, breaking the quiet.

He looked up, startled slightly—as if he’d been lost in thought. Then he nodded once. “Of course.”

She hesitated. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

“You didn’t come back when you said you would,” he replied, voice low. “And I told you. You're not alone in this.”

That should have comforted her. Instead, it made her feel like something had shifted between them—something fragile and irreversible.

Dana lay down on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, facing the fire. She stared at the flames, listening to the wind threading through the trees.

Just before sleep took her, she murmured, “I don’t know what I am. What we are. But I’m glad you’re here.”

There was a beat. Then his voice, quiet but sure: “So am I.”

She didn’t open her eyes, but she felt it—him. The warmth of his presence. The watchfulness of someone who would not sleep until she was safe.

And above them, the stars burned on, silent and bright.

***

The old raven fluffed her feathers and turned a watchful eye toward the bright, cheerful flame below.

The woman’s familiar sat nearby, elbows on his knees, his face lit orange by firelight.

A moth—white, with wide black eyes etched into its wings—drifted down to the same branch.

“Is that him?” the moth asked, speaking with the magic of the Overseer, so the raven heard the words inside her mind rather than through the air.

“It is,” the raven replied, her thoughts slow and sure as she looked down at the two figures beneath them.

“An odd shape for a familiar,” the moth said, tilting its body to peer more closely at the man. “Human.”

“It is,” the raven echoed, agreeing. “But he isn’t always so.” Then, after a pause: “What news from the Overseer?”

“We’re to keep our distance,” the moth said. “And watch.”

The raven shifted, settling deeper into the crook of the branch. The shadows made her all but vanish.

Watching, the raven thought, was something she was very good at.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Thank you to those that keep commenting — it’s so encouraging!

It was pissing rain. The kind of downpour that made the browning leaves on the trees overhead droop and curl under the weight of the constant onslaught. Dana was soaked through, cold even in her new wool cloak, and miserable beyond belief.

Beside her, the fox looked slightly less worse for wear as the water ran off his thick coat in stream-like rivulets.

They had been walking for over a day now in an aimless direction. It was time, Dana thought, to come up with some kind of plan. If the townspeople pursued her—which she thought likely due to Alexander’s scorching anger—they had probably long since given up. The label of ‘witch’ had likely not followed her this far from her village.

There was, however, nowhere at present to go. No towns were nearby that she could see, no bells ringing in the distance, not even another crofter’s cottage where she could wait out the weather.

Ahead there was a tall evergreen tree, and she stepped under it and onto the fragrant needles littering the forest floor. It was drier here, but the rain still collected and dropped.

Fox sat primly next to her and as she looked down at him, connecting eyes, her body gave a full-on shiver. His ears twitched and he nosed her cloak in question.

“I’m cold,” she said, her teeth starting to chatter, “we need to find shelter.” She looked up at the stately tree. “Better than this.”

Fox took off in a flash of damp fur, and she could only assume he was off to look for a place she could warm up. Doing her bidding. Like a familiar should.

Christ, she thought. If she were a witch she would warm herself. Summon some spell that dried her clothes and conjured up a cup of warm, spiced wine.

But she was powerless. She had no magic, even if magic did exist, which, knowing her companion, she had to reluctantly accept.

She lowered herself to the forest floor. Unwilling to soak the seat of her dress on the soupy wet needles, she leaned back against the trunk of the tree and pressed her weight into feet that felt like two blocks of ice.

Ten miserable minutes later, Fox reappeared.

“Have you found something?” she asked him through chattering teeth.

He yipped once—the first sound she’d ever heard him make—and darted off ahead, turning to make sure she followed.

***

The cave was barely a cave at all—just a shallow recess tucked beneath a jutting rock face, sheltered from above and dry enough to feel a bit like salvation.

Dana stumbled into it and dropped her pack. “This’ll do,” she muttered. It would have to.

She scraped her wet hair out of her face and pulled Bite out so the blade wouldn’t rust. Then she began gathering what bits of wood she could find beneath the trees just outside the mouth of the cave. Everything was wet. Twigs snapped, but they wept water when she tried to light them. She scraped flint against iron, again and again, hands shaking, sparks landing and dying in the damp mass of would-be kindling.

Fox watched her from the cave mouth, unmoving. Patient.

“I just need—” she growled, striking again. “Just one spark to catch. Just one.”

But nothing caught.

Her hands were numb. Her knees were soaked. Her bones ached.

She sat back on her heels, shoulders collapsing, and stared at the sodden pile. Her throat felt thick. Her vision blurred—not from smoke, not from wind—but from the raw helplessness gnawing at her chest.

If I could will a fire into existence, she thought, I would. I would burn the forest down for just a flicker of warmth.

She stared miserably at the wet triangle of kindling, her fingers curling into fists.

And then—

A thread of smoke.

Fox lifted his head.

Dana blinked.

A soft tendril rose from the center of the pile like a hot breath sighed into cold air.

She leaned forward, not breathing. And in the same moment that a sudden pressure bloomed just behind her sternum—hot and tight and unfamiliar—a flame flared.

Real. Bright. Hungry.

It licked up the damp kindling like it was dry and seasoned and soaked in oil.

She jerked back. Her hands sparked with warmth—her fingertips tingling as though they'd brushed a hedgehog’s back. She looked down at them, then at the fire, then at Fox.

He had stood.

He padded closer, watching her, then the fire, then her again. His gold eyes were alert, calculating, but beneath it—excitement. Recognition.

“I…” she whispered. “I didn’t do anything. I just—”

But she had.

And Fox knew it.

He circled around her and then lay beside her, his fox body pressed close to hers.

Dana didn’t argue.

Her whole body still shook. Her fingers trembled. She was soaked through, head to toe, and now that the fire had caught, now that there was a small, focused ball of heat just in front of her, the cold settled into into the rest of her, into her very marrow with fresh cruelty.

Fox nosed at her hip and curled closer, tucking himself against her side. She hesitated only a moment, and then, as she’d longed to do for as long as she’d known him, she buried her hands in his damp outer fur, seeking heat. She found it just beneath his thick outer coat. It was like the warm fuzz of a young chick—plush, thick, soft.

Warmth radiated off him like a living stove. His fur wasn’t just a pelt—it was something enchanted, something meant for her.

She sank her fingers deeper.

Heat spread slowly through her frozen knuckles and down into her wrists, her arms, her chest.

The last thing she remembered before sleep took her was the sound of the fire cracking and the feel of thick, warm fur beneath her palms.

***

She woke to the sensation of movement—change.

It started beneath her fingertips, which were no longer tangled in fur but pressed flat against warm skin. Smooth. Hot. Alive.

Her eyes flew open.

Fox—not the fox—sat beside her.

She jerked upright with a gasp and snatched her hands away.

They had been under his tunic. Flat on his bare chest.

He blinked at her, unbothered. His hair was damp and pushed back from his face, but the autumn-colored tunic he wore was dry—laced only halfway, and he wore dark breeches underneath. The fire beside him made his skin glow.

“Leave them,” he said calmly, watching her. “Your hands are like ice.”

She flushed, full and fast.

“No. I—no.” She scrambled backward slightly and tucked her hands under her arms. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

Fox didn’t press.

But he watched her in that way of his—quiet and unblinking.

The fire burned low but steady. But her clothes were still soaked and her body still shivered.

Fox frowned, as if just seeing her again.

“Do you have any other clothes?” he asked.

Dana reached for her satchel. Opened it. Rifled through her old cloak, the linen shift, the extra pair of socks, the bundled chemise. The blanket from the monastery, wet and useless.

All of it was soaked.

She didn’t need to answer.

“You need to take your clothes off,” he said simply, “so we can dry them.”

Her head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

“There’s no heat in them,” he replied. “You’re going to get sick.”

She glared at him, her whole body shaking now. She hated that he was right.

He seemed to sense her hesitation. He stood–only able to stoop under the low overhang of the rock–and gestured toward the open air just outside the cave. “I’ll leave you to your privacy.”

“No!” she said, more forcefully than she meant to. “Then you’ll be wet, cold, and miserable as well.”

He paused. Looked at her.

She was certain her lips were blue. Her teeth chattered.

Without a word, he stripped off his tunic and handed it to her.

“Take off your clothes,” he said gently. “Lay them out on those rocks. And wear this.”

He kneeled and turned his back.

The cave was too small to offer real privacy. But he didn’t peek. Didn’t shift.

Dana hesitated—then slowly, cautiously, peeled off her soaked boots and garments. She watched him like a hawk as she undressed, but he didn’t turn around. Not once.

His back was smooth and muscled, faint scars trailing down one shoulder. He was strong, lean and powerful.

She laid her clothes on the rocks and finally pulled his tunic over her head.

It was still warm. Still smelled like him—woodsy, wild, clean. Something like pine and something like smoke.

She curled up, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped the fabric over the top of them like a cocoon.

“I’m decent,” she said.

He turned around—and Lord help her, he was magnificent.

Wide shoulders. Strong chest. Muscles that moved like coiled rope beneath skin. A trail of dark hair disappeared below the edge of his breeches. His eyes met hers, and she quickly looked away, heat rushing to her cheeks.

He sat beside her in the only space there was—close. Almost too close.

“Are you warming?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, though her feet were freezing.

He looked down at them as if he had read her mind—pale and bare and poking out from beneath the hem of his tunic on her body.

“May I?”

She hesitated—then nodded, lifting her feet toward him, her misery outweighing her sense of propriety.

He took them in his hands, large and warm, and began to rub.

She had to twist slightly to face him, lift her legs, and she realized with a flash of panic that he might be able to see up the edge of the tunic.

But then his thumbs pressed into the arch of her foot and she moaned.

Her head fell back. “God.”

Something flashed in his eyes.

She felt it—low in her belly, hot and startling.

And she did not pull away.

Chapter 13

Notes:

I’ve got like five chapters burning a hole in my pocket and no beta I’m waiting on (maybe I should get a beta), so fuck it: here’s a second chapter for today. ✌🏻

The warmth between them lingered longer than the fire.

Fox’s thumbs moved in slow circles over the arches of her feet, his hands large and capable, the kind of touch that felt like it belonged. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Simply right.

Dana should have been mortified. Should have pulled away after that sound had escaped her— that sound. But instead, she sat very still, watching the steady movement of his hands over her skin, feeling the heat creep up her legs, coil low in her belly, settle somewhere dangerous.

Her head rested lightly against the stone wall of the cave. Her eyes half-lidded, the tension between them curling like smoke.

Then Fox spoke.

“It’s coming out,” he said quietly. “Your magic.”

The words weren’t a question. He didn’t say them with surprise or doubt. Just quiet certainty, as if he'd always known this moment would come.

Dana blinked. Her voice felt thick in her throat. “I didn’t mean to light the fire.”

“I know.” His eyes flicked up to hers, steady, unreadable. “But you wanted to.”

She swallowed. “It was just a thought. I didn’t cast anything. I don’t even know how.”

“Not all magic comes through spells,” he said. “Some comes through need.”

She frowned. “How do you know that?”

He paused his ministrations, but only for a moment.

“You’ve said yourself—you don’t remember anything,” she went on. “Not really. So how do you know so much about magic if you don’t know who you are?”

His hands didn’t stop moving. But something flickered behind his eyes.

“I don’t know how I know,” he admitted. “It’s just… there. Underneath everything else. Like instinct. Like breath.” He looked down at her feet, still cradled in his lap. “Some truths don’t need memory. They come through the blood.”

Dana didn’t answer. The idea made her feel hollow and full all at once. Like something was rising in her that didn’t belong to her alone.

Her feet were finally warm. Her limbs had stopped shaking. The ache behind her eyes softened.

Her eyes slipped closed for a moment. Just a moment.

She meant to thank him again. To ask another question. To pull just a little more from that strange, steady place in him that somehow felt older than memory.

But instead, her body sagged sideways, sleep pulling her down.

***
Fox caught her before her head could meet the stone. He shifted without effort, adjusting his posture so that she lay half-curled beside him, her cheek resting lightly against the curve of his thigh. Her fingers had curled into the hem of the tunic she wore—his tunic—but they twitched faintly, like she was still half-reaching for something even in sleep.

He watched her for a long time.

Watched the worry ease from her face, the color return to her skin, the breath settle low and deep in her chest. Outside, the wind picked up again, rattling the wet trees. But inside the cave, the fire burned low and steady, and Fox stayed still.

Uncomfortable. Cold. Except where she touched him— there , his body burned with heat.

Since waking in the pasture with no memory, he’d been driven by a singular purpose: to serve her magic. To protect her at any cost.

But in that moment, nestled against him, her scent rising warm through the smoke, her red-gold hair flickering like flame in the firelight—he felt it.

Not a break in the bond. Not disloyalty.

Something new, threading into the weave. A different kind of string being plaited beneath the old one. Still loyal. Still bound.

But changing.

Something human, but animal at the same time. 

His nostrils flared, drawing her scent deeper. Earth and fire and something sweet beneath.

He shook his head. Focused himself. Closed his eyes and reclaimed his stillness.

And in the flickering light, his hand hovered once—just once—over the place above her heart.

As if he could feel it too.

Whatever had woken there.

***

Dana woke to the smell of damp earth and cooled ash, her limbs loose and heavy with sleep. The fire had burned to gray powder, and the cave was silent save for the soft wind whispering outside.

She blinked once.

Fox was no longer a man.

He sat near the mouth of the cave, tail wrapped neatly around his legs, his fur ruffling slightly in the breeze. His eyes were half-lidded, watching her in that patient, unreadable way of his.

She pushed herself upright with a groan.

Her skin was stiff from the chill, but her clothes—thankfully—were dry. She looked down at the tunic still clinging to her, bare legs sticking out the bottom of it and felt her cheeks warm, even though there was no one human to see it now.

“I, um…” she murmured, glancing his way.

Fox stood at once, shook out his coat, and trotted into the trees without a sound, vanishing into the green like he was giving her space before she could ask for it.

She exhaled, then stripped off the tunic quickly and rolled it into a tight bundle, not knowing what to do with it. It seemed to come and go as Fox did, as though it were a part of him, as though it were a part of the magic. Whenever he changed into a man–though she’d never seen the change clearly–he seemed to be already wearing it.

She wondered what would happen when night fell. Would he change into a man and be in the same tunic he’d been wearing? Would it disappear from her hands and end up on him? Would he be wearing something different? 

Or would he be bare chested? Strapping and tall, fit as a prime stallion.

She shook off the thought and shoved the tunic deep into her pack, beneath the dried cloak, socks, and shift they’d laid out to dry the night before. Her hands hesitated on the fabric for half a second. It still smelled faintly of him—wild and pine-sweet and warm. She buried it under the rest of her things and tied the pack shut.

By the time Fox returned, she had scattered the ash from the fire with the heel of her boot and repacked their few belongings.

He padded toward her, licking his chops. She raised an eyebrow.

“Did you just eat someone?”

His tail flicked and he gave her as haughty a look as a fox could.

“Something,” she amended, amused.

It was probably time for her own breakfast. She pulled out a hunk of bread—dry and wrapped in oilcloth along with the book she’d picked up–though it was ever so slightly stale. She sat on a stone, hugging her knees while she chewed. 

She looked at him.

“Where should we go?” she asked softly. “I feel as though I’ve been running long enough.”

He tilted his head.

“I’m thinking…” she said, her voice firmer now, “it might be time to go toward something. But I don’t know what.”

Fox didn’t move.

He just watched her, eyes gleaming like coals. Not answering. But not dismissing the thought either.

She looked down at her hands, tore off another piece of bread.

“I can’t go back,” she said around a mouthful. There’s nothing for me there. But I can’t wander forever either.”

The wind picked up, tossing her hair across her cheek. She brushed it aside and looked out past the trees.

“I want to understand it,” she murmured. “What happened yesterday. That… fire.” Her fingers curled slightly at the memory, as if the spark were still sitting there, waiting. “And I want to understand you. Why you’re tied to me. Why you don’t remember.”

Fox stepped forward.

She looked at him.

“You said it comes through the blood. The knowing.”

He blinked once.

She reached out, very slowly, and let her fingers brush along the top of his head. He let her.

“Then maybe we start there,” she said. “With what we know. And find the rest as we go.”

The fox let out a slow breath through his nose, warming the skin of her wrist. 

Then turned his head toward the north.

She followed his gaze.

The woods thinned in that direction. Beyond the tangle of trees, the morning sun touched the tops of a ridge she hadn’t seen before. Not a town. Not a road. Just a worn path and something glinting faintly in the distance.

Fox took a step forward, then paused.

Waited.

Dana stood, shouldering her pack.

“North, then,” she said.

And together, they began walking—not away from something this time, but toward it.

Chapter 14

Notes:

Your comments are motivating me SO HARD you guys. Thank you so much!

Also, there's some bits with the dialogue that are bolded, an important indicator of something that will continue going forward. The bold is MUCH easier to see in light mode (SORRY).

The Overseer knelt at the mouth of the cave, his hand hovering over the stone. Magic had been done here—clumsy, desperate, and new. Flame-based, from the feel of it. The girl had tried to scatter the ash, had kicked it out into the wet moss and crumbled leaf litter, but the air still shimmered faintly with her effort.

The magic lingered like smoke after a funeral pyre.

The black viper slithered past his ankle, silent and smooth. She paused only to flick her tongue, tasting the air.

“The witch is coming into her magic,” she hissed in his mind.

“Yes,” he said aloud, pushing himself to stand. His knees cracked as he straightened. He sighed into the afternoon air, breath rising in a faint vapor.

Winter was close now.

And with it would come the fidelity of the young lovers—though they weren’t that yet. Not quite.

Which meant battle was coming. And death.

“So it’s true,” said the viper looking up at him, now coiled beside his boot.

He gripped his staff. The crystal atop it flared a faint, sickly green—then dimmed.

“It’s true,” he confirmed. 

He took a step forward, turned north, and followed their path.

***

The woods had grown quieter in the past hour.

Not empty—just settled, like the trees themselves had exhaled. Dana could hear the wind threading through the high branches above, rustling the last of summer’s leaves. The sunlight dappled through the canopy in slanted bands, golden and warm where it touched her shoulders, cool in the shadows.

They’d been walking most of the day. Not quickly. Just… forward. North, or close to it. Fox had gone on ahead again, slipping silently into the underbrush some time back. He didn’t go far when he did this. She’d learned to trust it.

She hadn’t called after him. She didn’t worry anymore when he disappeared.

In fact, she found she rather liked the quiet moments when she could listen to the woods without thinking too hard about where they were going. They would stop when the time was right. He always seemed to know when the path needed to end for the day.

She walked alone now, the sound of her boots soft against the packed dirt. Her bag was light–they would need to find another village soon to restock their wares. But it was pleasant here, and the air held that strange early-autumn clarity: the sun still warm on the skin, but the wind whispering change.

Up ahead, the trees began to thin. The path curled around a mossy rise. A bird startled from a low branch and took flight—just a soft rush of wings.

Dana stepped into the clearing—

And stopped.

A man stood in the center of the path.

He was tall and thin, his frame wiry beneath clothes worn to the color of bark. A satchel hung low at his side, and his boots were caked with old mud. His hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, dark and stringy, like it hadn’t seen a comb in days. His face was angular, chin sloping into a sharp point.

And he wasn’t moving.

Just standing there, watching her.

Dana’s hand stilled at her side.

The man smiled. “Didn’t expect company.”

She didn’t reply.

He shifted his weight. “You lost?”

She lifted her chin. “Meeting someone.”

He glanced past her shoulder. “Out here?”

“My husband’s just ahead,” she said. “Scouting a place to camp.”

His mouth twisted, amusement flickering there like a match ready to catch. “I don’t see a husband.”

“You will.”

The silence between them stretched. The breeze had stilled.

Dana adjusted the strap on her shoulder. One hand remained at her side, near the hilt tucked beneath her cloak. She didn’t want to reach for it—not yet. The man hadn’t moved. But the stillness around him… it was wrong. Not wary, not curious.

It was expectant.

“Pretty late in the day to be walking alone,” he said softly. “Dangerous out here.”

Dana didn’t move. Above them, a crow called out to his murder. 

The man took a step forward.

She took one back.

“Fox,” she whispered in her mind, though it wasn’t as if he could hear her. And even if he were near—even if—this man wouldn’t be afraid of a silent fox with amber eyes, no matter if it was the largest one she’d ever seen.

She didn’t expect an answer.

So when something brushed back across her thoughts—a faint echo, not quite words but presence—her breath caught.

It was there and gone in an instant. Fox. A pulse of awareness, as if they’d heard each other without ears.

But before she could make sense of it, the man stepped closer.

Close enough now that she could see the faint scab on his lip. The yellow in his teeth.

“Your husband,” he said, voice low, moving toward her. “He gonna be back soon?”

Dana’s hand closed around the hilt of Bite.

He didn’t stop. “Maybe we share a fire. Share a meal. Could be friendly.”

She didn’t think. She moved.

The blade came free in a silver flash, the weight of it grounding her as her arm extended. It didn’t shake. Not this time.

The man froze.

His hands lifted, half a shrug. “Easy.”

Dana didn’t lower the blade. “Leave.”

His eyes drifted down to the weapon. 

“Ain’t that pretty.”

She didn’t answer.

“A pretty thing with a pretty blade.”

She swallowed as something in his expression changed. 

“I got a blade, too,” he said, a smile she didn’t like creeping up his cheek. “Want to see it?” 

To her left, there was a snap of a twig, and Dana worried briefly that the man might have a friend, but he whipped his head toward the sound as well and his expression changed to one of unease.

“I expect that’s my husband,” she said with something like confidence, somehow knowing it was Fox approaching. And if he’d made a sound, he’d done it on purpose. 

The man stepped back, swallowed hard and gave her one long, last look.

“Shame,” he muttered.

Dana said nothing. Kept her stance, blade steady, breath tight in her lungs.

The man took one more step back, then turned. Disappeared into the trees with a quiet curse and the snap of dry twigs.

Only after the sound of him was gone—truly gone—did she lower the blade.

Her fingers were cramping around the hilt. She loosened them slowly, flexing them once before slipping the weapon back beneath her cloak.

To her left, where the brush had rustled earlier, a shape emerged.

Fox. Still in his animal form, for now.

His fur was raised in a thick line down his spine, ears pinned back, golden eyes sharp. He didn’t approach her at once—just stood, staring into the trees where the man had disappeared. Watching. Listening. Still.

Dana didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She stood for another breath, then shifted the strap of her pack on her shoulder and turned toward the narrowing path.

Twilight was coming fast now, dragging long blue shadows across the forest floor. The light had taken on that unmistakable softness—muted, dusky, cool against her skin. Nightfall would be on them within the hour.

Fox fell in beside her, silent as a shadow.

They walked.

***

They were deeper into the woods by the time it happened.

The trees had grown dense again, crowding close to the path. Dana’s heart had slowed, but her mind still echoed with what might’ve happened. She hadn't struck—but she’d been ready. The weight of that truth settled somewhere in her ribs.

She stepped carefully around a knot of roots, glancing up just as the sun slipped fully behind the ridge.

That same strange stillness fell over the forest—the hush between day and night, when even the birds quieted.

And then she felt it.

Not a sound exactly, but a shift in the air. Like the pressure around her changed. Like something took its first breath after being held too long.

She turned.

Fox was no longer a fox.

He stood in the underbrush, bare-chested, damp leaves clinging to his arms. His shoulders rose and fell with a steady rhythm, and the fading light cast amber across his skin.

Dana’s mouth parted slightly, caught between relief and something else she didn’t want to name.

He met her eyes.

“I was further ahead than I should have been,” he said. His voice was low. Calm. “I turned back the moment I heard your voice.”

Which voice? she wanted to ask, but didn’t. What happened in her head had probably just been a trick of her mind. 

She nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “It’s all right.”

His eyes flicked downward. “I seem to be missing something.”

Only then did she remember. The tunic.

“Oh—right.” Her voice pitched high, too quick. She dropped her pack and crouched beside it, her fingers fumbling with the ties. “I kept it after last night. I wasn’t sure if… I mean, it always seems to appear when you do, so I didn’t know if—”

Fox didn’t interrupt. He waited, still as ever.

She tugged the tunic from the bottom of the satchel and stood, holding it out to him. It was still faintly warm from her heat leaching into the pack, a little wrinkled from where she’d buried it.

His fingers brushed hers as he took it.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

She turned away to give him privacy, though there wasn’t much to be found in the open woods. He slipped it over his head with practiced ease. When she turned back, he was dressed again, gathering his hair back from his face with one hand.

The moment passed quietly.

They started walking again.

The last light of day slanted through the trees in cool, fading bands, the forest awash in shadow and the soft hush of coming night.The wind stirred gently through the branches, cool and dry. A raven called in the distance.

Fox tilted his head as if to listen, and then continued to walk beside her, silent for a time.

Then, “Can I see it?”

She glanced at him.

“Bite,” he added, as if the nickname weren’t strange at all. “I’ve never seen it from a safe angle. You’ve only ever pointed it at me.”

Dana felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Sorry about that.”

His mouth curled, amused. “In fairness, I probably deserved it.”

She unhooked the blade from her belt and handed it to him, hilt-first.

He took it with care and turned it over in his hands. The light caught on the edge of the steel, clean and dry. His thumb traced the groove along the spine, then the base, where faint etchings marked the surface.

“It’s intricately carved,” he said. “On the blade and the handle.”

Dana nodded. “It was with me when I was found as a babe. In the basket. It’s always been mine.”

He glanced up.

“Old Mildred gave it to me as soon as I was strong enough to lift it without tipping over. I trained with it. Practiced with it. But I don’t know what the markings mean. Mildred thought they were decorative. Some swordsmith just showing off.”

Fox tilted the blade, squinting at the etchings in the softening light.

“They’re runes,” he said after a moment. “I think.”

“Magical symbols?”

He grunted an affirmative and studied it a moment longer, then offered it back to her.

She took it and turned it in her hands, her fingers finding the grooves out of habit.

“I know them so well,” she murmured. “Every one. I could draw them with a stick in the dark. But I don’t feel anything magical in them. Not… exactly.”

Fox didn’t speak right away. Just kept walking beside her.

They fell into a quiet stretch of path. A breeze stirred Dana’s hair, and she tucked it behind her ear without thinking and sheathed Bite.

“It’s strange,” she said after a while. “To carry something your whole life and not know what it is.”

Fox glanced at her. “Not that strange.”

That made her smile, just a little.

Then she remembered the odd object in her pocket. She pulled out the smooth round stone. The etchings on it were different than those on Bite. 

“What do you make of this?” she asked. 

He bent to look at it, but then somewhere behind them, a bird took flight with a loud clatter of wings. Dana didn’t flinch, but Fox turned to look.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, pocketing the stone and turning to follow his gaze.

He stood looking for a long moment and then relaxed. “It’s fine,” he said, turning back to her and giving her a reassuring smile. She smiled back.

The path ahead narrowed, curling between two trees bowed low with moss. Their arms brushed as they walked, once, then again—light, incidental.

Neither moved away.

The hush of dusk pressed in gently around them, the forest dimming to and blue and gray. Crickets had started up in the undergrowth, their rhythm steady, familiar. The world felt softened at the edges.

Dana’s hand shifted slightly at her side, fingers loosening from the tension they were still holding.

Fox’s did the same.

Not deliberately. Not searching.

Just… opening.

And between them, their hands brushed—palm to palm—once, then again—and finally stilled together.

Fingers not quite laced.

Just touching.

Just enough.

Chapter 15

Notes:

This work has not been through beta.

Your comments keep me writing. Thank you!!

Roads began to populate their path just after noon. First one—a narrow, rutted thing bordered by hedgerows—then another, wider and more worn, with travelers heading in the same direction. That was the first sign.

Then came the smoke.

Not woodsmoke, but the sharp, layered tang of a settlement: coal, animals, metal. The kind of scent that clung to everything and didn’t belong to the forest. By mid-afternoon, they were passing signs carved into posts, the occasional milestone with faded letters, and an increasing number of people.

Dana had tucked her hair beneath her hood and pulled her cloak tighter as they passed a man selling dried apples from a cart and two women pushing a wheelbarrow full of wool. She hadn’t needed to say anything to Fox. He’d already vanished into the underbrush.

It wasn’t until later, when the light was going golden, that she found the farmhouse. The farmer she encountered by the gate had three redheaded daughters and a weathered kindness in his face. When Dana asked if she could stay the night in the barn, he offered her a place by the hearth and a cup of broth. But she had declined—politely, firmly, insisting that she would be more comfortable in the outbuilding. She wanted to stay close to Fox. 

The barn smelled of straw, warm hide, and something sweet and sour—maybe old apples fermenting in the small root cellar. It wasn’t comfortable, exactly, but it was safe. The animals shuffled in their stalls below, and an old cat watched her from the rafters with slow-blinking eyes.

Fox sat at the edge of the loft, back braced against the wall, long legs stretched in front of him. He had returned to his human form at sundown. The tunic she’d dug from the bottom of her satchel looked loose on him, but not ill-fitting. It was still wrinkled from being in her bag.

Dana, nestled into a corner of old blankets and hay, tilted her head toward him. She’d pulled out the book she’d bought on the uses of plants and had been trying to read it. But Fox’s silence had been especially loud. "You’ve been quiet."

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the sliver of night visible through the loft’s hay door. Beyond the frame, the stars had begun to appear.

"You’re thinking about entering the city," he said finally.

She nodded. “We’re close enough now. We need things.”

He made no sound of agreement or protest.

“I’ve still got coin,” she went on. “Not much. But maybe enough for a few days of food. Bandages. Another warm blanket. The nights are getting colder.”

He shifted slightly, resting one arm along his bent knee. Still watching the sky.

“You hate the idea,” she said, not accusingly.

“I hate the idea of you walking into a city alone.”

“There will be a plethora of people about,” she said. “I’ll hardly be alone.”

He exhaled expansively, though he didn’t call her out on her evasiveness. 

“I’ll blend in,” she said with good humor.

He finally looked at her. “You don’t blend in anywhere, Dana,” he said frankly. “You’re too stunning a beauty.”

She felt her face go hot. Her village had few looking glasses, but she knew the delicate features of the girl staring back at her in the water trough. Mildred often told her how fine she looked, and she could feel it in the collected looks from the village men. No one but Agnes with her voluptuous bust and bee stung lips drew as many stares.

But to be noticed by Fox made her feel something else entirely. Not once had he ever leered at her. He treated her as an equal, a partner. She felt safe with him. Safer than she’d felt with any man, ever.

She breathed out through her nose.

“I’ll wear my hood. Smudge dirt on my face.” 

The side of his mouth twitched up ever so slightly. 

“And if something happens?”

She looked him in the eye. “You’ll be nearby.”

A breath. Not quite a sigh.

“I’ll go in during the day,” she continued. “You’ll stay hidden beyond the walls. Meet me at the field outside the gate before sunset. We’ll keep heading north after.”

At that, Fox turned to look at her. The moonlight caught the edge of his profile—steady, quiet.

“You still feel it?” he asked.

North, she thought. He was asking about their destination.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Not a voice, exactly. More like… pressure. Like standing near something just out of sight.”

He gave a slight tilt of his head. “That’s how it started for me too.”

Dana looked over at him, surprised. “You felt it before I did?”

“I’ve always felt north pulling,” he said. “Even before I found you. But now… it’s stronger. Sharper.”

She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “It’s strange. I’ve always needed a map. A plan. But this—I don’t doubt it. I just know.”

He didn’t say anything, but there was something in his gaze that anchored her. A calm acceptance. As if her magic—whatever shape it was beginning to take—was something he had been waiting for all along.

She set down her book and lay back against the hay, her eyes half-lidded. Her voice came out soft. “Try to get some rest.”

“I don’t sleep much at night,” he murmured.

“I know.”

A silence stretched between them—not awkward, but thoughtful. She could hear the low noises of the animals below, the slow creak of the wood beams in the cool air.

After a while, Dana’s eyes slipped closed.

***

They left before sunrise.

Mist clung to the ground like dew, curling around Dana’s ankles as she made her way to the road. She’d memorized the path the evening before. Fox trailed behind her until they neared the edge of a small rise.

“Go,” she said softly, without turning around.

She didn’t need to look to know he was gone. Just like that. As the sun peeked above the horizon, he slipped into the underbrush.

She joined the flow of morning travelers heading toward the city. A slow line of carts and figures on foot, some pushing wheelbarrows, others leading donkeys or goats. Dana kept her head down and her hood up. She listened to the quiet thrum of morning voices, the rattle of wheels, the distant bark of dogs.

Here and there, she caught sight of movement along the road’s edge. The faintest flick of a russet tail. The gleam of gold eyes. Fox, never far, but always just out of reach.

By late afternoon, the city walls rose above the hills like a gray crown. The river glinted to the south, wide and slow, and the road bent sharply before reaching the gates. Dana felt the energy change around her—tension rising, bodies pressing closer, guards calling instructions from the gate towers.

“Closing soon!” someone barked. “Sun sets fast these days. Move along!”

Dana slipped from the crowd before she could be swept through. She offered a faint smile to a woman selling loaves from a cart and ducked down the side path that curved back into the fields.

The wheat was high this season, pale gold with streaks of rust. She waded into it, brushing the stalks aside, until she found a patch flat enough to rest. The sun burned low in the sky, turning everything copper.

She waited.

Time passed slowly in the field. The breeze picked up. Dana shifted, stretching her legs, adjusting her cloak. She caught sight of the city bell tower in the distance and watched its long shadow creep along the wall.

Then, from the far edge of the field, she saw him. The fox, bounding through the wheat. Every few seconds, he leapt high above the stalks like a fish breaching water.

She smiled.

And then—he changed.

The light touched the treeline, the city gate clanged shut with finality, and his form shimmered, shifted, grew. His body arched with the transformation, muscle and bone realigning. For a heartbeat, he looked as though he was in pain. Then it was over.

Before her, Fox stood tall—his chest rising and falling with exertion, his tunic clinging damply to his frame. Stray stalks of wheat clung to his hair, and the last streaks of sunset cast his bare arms in molten gold. He looked half-wild, half-mythic, like something called up from a story told around a fire.

Dana couldn’t speak. She had watched it happen this time—really watched. The moment when fur gave way to skin. The impossible folding of limbs. The outline of him reshaping. It hadn’t looked graceful. Not entirely. It had looked… painful. True. Like a body fighting itself to become what it was always meant to be.

He reached her at a jog, breath sharp in his throat. She took a step back without meaning to—only half-aware of it—her heart hammering, unsure whether from what she’d just seen or what was written across his face.

“There’s something—” he panted. “We’re being followed.”

The words snapped the air between them.

“What?!” Her voice pitched higher than she’d ever heard it, and her fingers curled instinctively at her sides.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” he said, voice rough from the run, from the shift. “But I started watching the treeline while you were walking. Always the same bird. Same path. Just beyond the branches. Always too far to spook.”

Dana’s stomach tightened. “A bird?”

He nodded once, still breathing hard. “A raven.”

There was a beat of silence. The field around them suddenly felt too open.

She swallowed, a sense of confusion washing over her. “Why would a bird–” 

And then his eyes met hers, sharp and dark in the falling light. “She’s like me.”

Chapter 16

Notes:

I told myself that if I got ten comments by school pickup, I’d post the next chapter since it’s on the shorter side. Just made it.

So here you go!

“Like you?” Dana echoed.

Fox nodded. “She’s a familiar.”

She looked up into the darkening sky, heart pounding, her breath growing shallow and thin with fright. The last scraps of daylight were bleeding out over the horizon, the kind of bruised gold that meant the sun was truly gone now, and a few stars had begun to prick through the velvet overhead like pinholes in the fabric of the world.

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

Dana was still wrapping her head around this. Not just the idea of another familiar, but the implications of it. Another animal-bound soul. Another person—creature—thing—that lived by the strange and shifting rules of magic. Of fate. And if there was one… how many more were out there? Was the raven watching her? Was it tracking Fox? Or something worse?

A cool wind rippled through the stalks of wheat, whispering against her legs and lifting strands of hair from her braid. Her fingers curled into the fabric at her sides, grounding herself. The day had already been long. Her mind ached with unanswered questions and the weight of not knowing who to trust. And now this—something ancient and winged and clever, watching them from the skies.

Fox crouched down into the wheat, and she mirrored his movements instinctively, the dry stalks crackling softly around her legs. Her eyes swept the sky, searching for the dark speck that had followed them all this way. She didn’t see it now. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Still, somewhere behind her ribs, a small cup of hope tipped into her chest.

“What if she’s friendly?” Dana whispered, turning toward him, her voice softer now, touched with something like wonder. “Maybe her witch can teach me something.”

It was a genuine thought. Not born of naivety, but of a hunger—for answers, for guidance, for someone who could finally explain the path she’d been blindly feeling her way through. Someone like her. Someone who understood.

But Fox’s face was solemn in the last light. “If she were friendly,” he said, voice low and certain, “she wouldn’t be hiding. She wasn’t trying to be seen.”

Dana’s mouth went dry. She swallowed hard, the optimistic flicker in her chest guttering. Of course he was right. A creature like that didn’t follow strangers through fields for fun. There was intention behind its silence. A purpose.

“So what do we do?” she asked, already dreading the answer.

“Go into the city,” Fox said. “A bird’s easier to lose in a city than a forest.”

She nodded slowly. It made sense. Out here, they were exposed. Wide fields. Open sky. They couldn’t outrun wings—not in a place like this. But in the city? Maybe. There would be awnings and buildings and crowds and cover.

“Can we get in?” she asked, glancing toward the distant outline of the city walls, though the gates were out of sight behind the curve of the hills. Even before he answered, her shoulders tensed.

“No,” he said, his breath finally slowing from his run. “Not until morning.”

She pressed a hand against her ribs, trying to still her own breath. Her chest felt tight, as if the air around them had grown thinner.

"If we make it through the night," he added, though the words felt unnecessary. The dread curling in her belly had already told her that.

The wheat whispered around them, swaying gently in the cold wind. They could not start a fire. Dana pulled the blanket from her pack and wrapped it around her shoulders, but it was thin and worn. The breeze bit at her ankles.

Fox looked equally miserable, sweat quickly chilling in the wind, arms crossed tight over his chest. He didn’t complain.

"Come," she said softly. "We’ll share our warmth."

He hesitated for just a breath, then crossed to her side. They sat together at first, shoulders brushing awkwardly, but it wasn’t enough. The wind kept finding the gaps between them.

Dana shifted the blanket, held it open in invitation. Fox slid under it beside her, his movements slow and cautious.

She lay down first, curling onto her side in the matted wheat. He followed, careful, and after a few minutes of stiff repositioning, his arm came around her waist.

Her back pressed to his chest, and her head tucked beneath his chin. It was warmer immediately. But it was also… something else. Something strange and delicate.

His body was solid behind her. Strong. Steady. The shape of him wrapped around her own like they had done this before. Like her bones had learned him in some forgotten life.

She could feel the press of his hand against her ribs, the warmth of his breath at her neck.

The sounds of the field surrounded them: the rustle of stalks, the occasional hoot of an owl, and something more distant—metal against metal, echoing faintly from the city’s far side. The wind carried the scent of crushed grain, cold stone, and Fox. He smelled like earth and pine and something just a little wild.

She lay there, silent and very carefully still, for what felt like an eternity. She swallowed.

"I can’t sleep," she whispered.

His voice was quiet behind her. "I know."

A pause. The beat of her heart pounded in her ears.

"I keep thinking she’s watching us," Dana said. "Even now. I keep expecting to look up and see black wings above us."

"She might be," he said. "But she hasn’t made a move. Not yet."

Dana closed her eyes. "Why would another familiar be after us?"

"I don’t know." His hand shifted slightly at her side. Not to pull her closer, but to settle her. Steady her. "But she has to belong to another witch. I don’t think she’s working alone."

Dana opened her eyes. The moon had risen higher, painting silver shadows across the wheat. The city glowed faintly in the distance, a halo of yellow light.

She turned her head slightly. "Do you think we’ll lose her? In the city?"

His breath was warm at her temple. "I think we’ll have a better chance there than we do out here."

Her body slowly began to relax. Not from safety, but from exhaustion. But closeness, the steady weight of him, calmed something in her.

"I don’t want to go in without you," she said softly, thinking she’d like to have a human hand to hold while walking through the unfamiliar streets. 

"You won't be," he said. "Not really."

And for a little while, they said nothing. Just breathed together in the dark.

Eventually, sleep found her. Not deeply, not fully—but enough.

Just before dawn, Fox nudged her awake.

"Time."

The air was colder than before, the sky washed in slate blue and pale gray. Dew had crept into the blanket, hardening into frost, and her boots were damp.

They went over the plan.

She would enter the city at first light. Buy a large burlap sack. He would climb in. She would carry him through.

Neither of them liked it.

Dana was just about to argue, voice low and hesitant, when she heard it:

The caw-click-click-click of a raven’s call.

Her blood ran cold.

And then—

Light. From both sides of her. The sun. And the man. 

Fox shimmered. Changed.

She sat upright, breath caught. The transformation was faster this time, but no less jarring. One moment he was a man. The next—fur, teeth, golden eyes. Small, silent.

She stared, struck dumb all over again.

Then the city bell rang.

Once.

Twice.

The toll for the morning gate.

She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding, pack clutched in her hands.

And ran.

Chapter 17

Notes:

Your comments are legit the only thing keeping me going. 🫶🏻

God, he was heavy.

Far heavier than he looked trotting beside her or leaping soundlessly through the trees as though he were made of air. Now? Every step she took, the meaty weight of him thumped against her back.

The sack rustled with each stride. She tried not to draw attention, but the strain was real. Her arms ached. Her back burned.

And Fox, to his credit, wasn’t moving.

Still. Silent. Hidden.

The sack was itchy, rough against her shoulders, and the canvas dug cruelly into her collarbone as she pressed through the city gates with the early crowd.

Morning light poured over the stones in angled golds, bouncing off shop signs and windows. Bells chimed from somewhere higher up—not the great tower bell, but a market bell, sharp and merry and urgent. The city breathed and pulsed around her, louder and more alive than anywhere she'd ever been. The air was thick with smells—roasting chestnuts, hot tallow, ash and soot, horse dung and spiced bread.

It was beautiful. It was terrible.

Dana walked with the weight of her strange cargo pressing into her spine, clutching the worn strap that dug into her palm. She stopped first at a vendor with oiled leather boots hanging from wooden pegs. As she crouched to examine a pair, she had to lower the sack. Fox gave a low, warning growl as a wheelbarrow trundled past, nearly nicking him.

"Sorry," she muttered, hoisting the sack again. It was heavier now. Or she was just getting more tired.

Every shop, every stall, every stop was the same. Set him down. Pick him up. Avoid trampling hooves and curious glances. Each time, the sack seemed to grow more leaden. Her arms ached, her legs burned, and her eyes kept scanning the sky for feathers, for wings, for something dark that watched.

She tried not to stare at the people—but how could she not? She had never seen so many all in one place. A girl in a dress the color of ripe pears danced barefoot across a square. An old man with gold-threaded sleeves barked curses at a donkey. A group of monks walked in solemn procession, singing a harmony so lovely it made Dana's chest ache.

And yet, despite the beauty, she could feel danger clinging to the edges of things.

A man brushed her shoulder and gave a too-long glance at the sack. "Heavy load, girl," he said, his grin wide, teeth yellow. "Let me carry it for you."

"No, thank you," she said quickly.

He reached for the strap anyway.

"No!" she barked, jerking it away. She stumbled back, nearly falling. A few people turned. The man raised his hands.

"Suit yourself."

Maybe he meant well. Maybe not. But she couldn’t afford to find out.

By midday, her coin purse was nearly empty and the sack was biting into her raw shoulders. She ducked into an alley that looked mostly abandoned—no signs, no footsteps, just a narrow lane behind a row of stone shops. It smelled of garbage and piss. She set the sack down gently and pulled open the flap.

Golden eyes blinked up at her.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "You must be miserable in there."

He blinked at her and shook his head like a dog flinging off water. She couldn't tell if it was a positive or a negative. 

"Do you think we lost the raven?" she whispered. "I haven’t seen it."

He stared. No response.

But then she felt it: a featherlight brush across her mind. Not a word, not a thought. Just acknowledgment.

She exhaled.

"I can’t keep carrying you. I’m sorry. I’m strong, but I’m not strong enough."

Fox sniffed the air, then peeped his head from the bag and licked her hand, quick and soft.

Her throat tightened.

"I’m so tired," she admitted, her voice cracking. "God, what I wouldn’t give for a bed."

He blinked slowly. Understanding.

They both knew she had no coin, but she couldn't stop the daydream now that it was stuck in her mind.

She thought of an inn. A hot meal. A hot bath. 

"I bet they have wonderful inns here,” she said wistfully. “I could probably sneak you into a room in the sack," she murmured, almost laughing at the image. "God, could you imagine? A real bed again?"

The thought made her eyes sting.

A few people passed the mouth of the alley. Dana scooped up the sack and moved deeper. The buildings here backed into stables and coal sheds. She spotted a wide door, slightly ajar, and slipped inside.

Warmth and scent hit her immediately. Hay, sweat, something metallic. She lowered the sack again, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The interior of the barn was dim, thick with shadows and the musty tang of old straw. Fox peeked out—and immediately growled.

“What is it?” she murmured, glancing around.

That’s when she saw the movement—small, quick, darting along the edge of a hay bale. Then another, near the corner. Rats. She hadn’t noticed them at first. They blended into the shadows, their presence quiet but unmistakable now that she was looking. One scurried a little too close, sniffing at the hem of her cloak.

She flinched back instinctively, heart giving a little jolt.

Fox leapt from the sack in a blur, all muscle and motion. A squeal. Then stillness. Another leap, another flash of movement. Then quiet.

He dropped both rats at her feet, his ears forward and body alert.

She stared down at them, startled. Not horrified—but sobered. They were just rats. But bold. Unbothered by her presence. Maybe drawn by the scent of food or the heat of the barn, but still… she hadn’t seen them. Not until they were close.

Fox nudged one with his nose and gave a short huff.

Before she could react, a voice called from around the corner. "Harry! Mr. Bower will be wanting his order this evening, you'd best get on it!"

Panic flared. She reached for Fox.

He dove into the bag just as a woman rounded the corner. She was broad, red-cheeked, wearing a leather apron and a kerchief knotted at her throat.

She blinked at Dana. "Hello there," she said, surprised but not unkind. "Didn’t expect to see anyone in my stables. You all right, love?" Then her gaze fell to the rats.

"Welllll," she said slowly. "You get them rats, did ya?"

Dana nodded dumbly, unsure of what else to do or say. "Yes."

The woman glanced at the sack. "Got a whole bagful, do ya? Pretty maid like you, wouldn’t take you for a rat hunter." She grinned. "But if it’s business you're looking for, I have it. In spades. Them vermin are running through my larder faster than my growing children."

Dana blinked. "I—"

"Quiet, are you? That’s fine. Listen, love, I’ll give you a shilling for every five rats you bring me from this stable, and two for every rat from my larder."

Dana opened her mouth to protest, to explain—but then she felt it again. A nudge in her mind. A push. A wordless YES.

"Um, all right," she said, getting used to the idea and dealing with the realization that the thoughts she was hearing were Fox's. "You have a deal, miss."

The woman beamed. "Name’s Molly. You just holler when you’re done."

When she was gone, Dana opened the sack. Fox burst forth like a fury loosed. In no time, he had twelve more rats in a bloody heap. Then he was back in the sack. Molly whistled in delight and brought them into the larder next.

Another fifteen there.

By early afternoon, her coin purse was fat and jingling. Two more shopkeepers had asked for her services—one she’d accepted, one she’d declined when they asked to "see how she managed it."

Dana and Fox reconvened in the shadow of a brick chimney behind the blacksmith’s larder.

Her hair clung to her temple. Her arms shook with exhaustion.

"I think," she said, glancing down at the sack that still twitched with his presence, "it's time we treat ourselves to the finest inn in Highmere."

Fox didn’t respond. But she didn’t need him to.

She felt the yes.

And smiled.

****

Molly led her through the streets of Highmere like a woman on a mission—or more accurately, like she owned the place. Her broad shoulders cut a swath through the crowds, and her voice carried above the din like a bell. Every few steps, she called out a greeting.

"Elias! You still owe me for that wheel spoke!"

"Morning, Tam! Your youngest still eating his boots or has he found proper food?"

She scooped a laughing baby from its mother’s arms with a practiced ease, lifting it high into the air and spinning once before planting a kiss on its cheek and handing it back with a wink.

Dana followed in her wake, clutching the sack close to her chest, head down. The streets buzzed with life: children darting between stalls, cartwheels bumping over cobblestones, horses snorting and stamping, vendors shouting wares. The smells were overwhelming—fresh bread, manure, roasting nuts, something sharp and metallic.

"Love, you don’t have to carry that," Molly said, jerking her chin at the sack Dana held tight. "You could just empty it—I’ve already paid you."

"It’s not rats," Dana murmured.

"Oh?"

"My things," she added. "Just… clothes. Food."

Molly gave her a long, appraising look. "You’re a slight of a thing, and I’m as brawny a lass as you’ll meet. Let me help."

"I’ve got it," Dana said, more firmly.

Molly, to her credit, backed off with a shrug and a grin. "Suit yourself. But you let me know if your arms fall off."

They turned onto a quieter lane, the shouts and clamor giving way to the rattle of shutters and the low murmur of conversation from shaded doorways. The buildings here were tall and timbered, the street cleaner, the people slower and better dressed.

They stopped in front of a tall, slate-roofed building with painted shutters and flower boxes in the windows. A sign above the door read The Violet Bell in curling script.

"Here we are," Molly announced, and banged once—loudly—on the door.

It opened almost immediately. The innkeeper was a man of middling years and impeccable grooming, with a fine waistcoat and magnificent facial hair.

"Molly," he said with fond exasperation. "What have you dragged in now?"

"This lovely girl’s in need of rest and the best room you’ve got," Molly declared, slapping Dana affectionately on the back. "She’s earned it. Killed more rats than I’ve seen in weeks. Give her the full treatment."

The innkeeper’s brow rose slightly, but he smiled. "Of course. Right this way."

Molly beamed. "Now you enjoy yourself, love. You need anything—anything—you just ask for Molly of Baker’s Row."

Dana smiled, her throat tight with sudden gratitude. "Thank you. Truly."

Molly waved her off and was gone in a gust of energy and laughter.

The innkeeper gestured for Dana to follow and led her up a narrow staircase with polished banisters and soft carpets. At the top, he opened a heavy wooden door.

"The best we have," he said, gesturing to the cozy room beyond. "Would you like a meal brought up? Or a bath?"

Dana tried not to notice his brief, distasteful glance at her worn and grubby attire.

She stepped inside the room, heart fluttering. The room was beautiful—stone fireplace, embroidered curtains, a real feather bed.

"Yes, please," she said. "A bath. And—if it’s not too much—two meals?"

He paused. Turned to look at her.

"Two meals?"

His eyes narrowed, expression shifting subtly.

"Miss," he said carefully, "I hope you understand, this is a respectable establishment. If you’ve any plans to entertain—"

Dana flushed. "No. No, that’s not—It’s just for me. I haven’t eaten all day. I’ll lock the door once I’m in, I swear it. I won’t come down again until morning."

The innkeeper studied her for a beat, then nodded once. "Very well. I’ll have it all sent up right away."

Dana waited until he was gone before gently setting the sack on the floor. She crossed the room in a daze, shoes scuffing the soft rug. The moment she reached the bed, she sank onto it.

The mattress dipped beneath her weight. She pressed her palms to it. Real. Soft. Clean.

Behind her, the sack rustled. She smiled.

"Come out," she whispered, reaching for him—not just with her voice, but with that quiet thread that had so recently begun to hum between them.

The bag shifted. Then, with a familiar rustle and a faint grunt, Fox emerged, stretching long and low, his limbs awkward from confinement. His fur was mussed and his ears flicked irritably, but he padded into the room without hesitation.

"When they bring up the food and bath," Dana murmured, watching him with tired affection, "you can hide under the bed, all right?"

He didn’t need to be told twice. He nosed around the room once, giving the hearth and the curtains a good sniff, before slipping beneath the bed in one graceful motion, just as a knock came at the door.

Dana stood. Exhausted but steady.

"Come in," she called.

The door creaked open. Warm food and steaming water waited beyond.

Chapter 18

Notes:

Your comments! Your comments! Thank you guys so much!!!

The door flung wide, and warm light spilled into the room as two kitchen girls entered, huffing slightly under the weight of a gleaming copper tub. The basin was small but deep enough for a proper soak, its polished surface catching the candlelight and flickering with orange-gold highlights. Their cheeks were flushed from the climb and the heat of the steaming water that followed, carried in sloshing buckets by three more girls. The scent of lavender and something sweeter—rosemary, maybe—rose with the steam and clung sweetly to the air like a lullaby.

Dana dropped her satchel in the corner, hiding Bite underneath it as the kitchen girls brought up bucket after bucket of steaming water. By the time they had finished the process, she had eaten half her plate, the warmth and richness of the meal making her limbs feel boneless and heavy. 

The bread had been soft and dense, crusted with salt and brushed with butter. The lentils had been simmered with garlic and herbs, while the potatoes were golden and crisp on the outside, their insides tender. The pork slices, edged in char, were lacquered with a honeyed glaze that still lingered on her fingers.

The girls glanced at the untouched plate across from her.

"Would you like us to take this away, miss?" one of them asked, gesturing to the second tray.

"No, please," Dana said, quickly and a touch too sharply. "Leave it. And the wine glass. And—if you wouldn’t mind—another bottle?"

The girls exchanged a look, but only curtsied in response. "Of course, miss."

Their footsteps faded down the corridor. Dana turned the key in the door and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly, her body sinking into the quiet hush left behind.

"You can come out now," she murmured.

From beneath the bed came a faint rustle. Fox padded out into the candlelit room, his paws soundless on the thick rug. The lines of his body were still tense with the residue of travel, but his golden eyes glinted with relief. He sniffed the air, then made another circuit, stopping at the hearth, then the curtain hem, circling the room with a careful, almost reverent attention.

Dana turned toward the bath. Steam rose in shimmering ribbons, the surface dotted with violet-blue specks of lavender and thin curls of fragrant oils. The smell made her limbs go slack again—something about it conjured an old memory, of bedtime, maybe, or a forgotten garden.

She tugged off her boots and set them aside, then reached for the hem of her dress—only to pause when her eyes locked with Fox’s. He’d stopped near the hearth, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Heat surged in her cheeks. It bloomed across her collarbone, down her chest. She wasn’t sure why—he wasn’t even in human form. But the awareness of his gaze lit something inside her, low and pulsing.

Then, with what looked like reluctant grace, Fox turned away. He padded to the rug near the fire and lowered himself carefully to the ground, then groaned as he rested his head on his paws. A moment later, he rolled onto his side, his long snout facing the wall away from her.

Dana hesitated. Then crossed to the bed and plucked one of the pillows. Quietly, she knelt beside him and lifted his head just enough to slide it underneath. His fur was warm and soft against her palms. When he rolled onto his back and looked up at her, the gratitude in his eyes was unmistakable. She gave a small, wry smile in return.

She rose and walked back to the tub, letting her dress fall away, her back still to him. His head remained turned. She felt the thrum of her own heartbeat in her ears as she slid the rest of her clothes off and stepped into the bath.

The water kissed her skin like silk. It enveloped her, wrapping every part of her in heat and floral fragrance. She let out a long breath and slid lower, until only her shoulders and knees were above the surface. Her muscles gave way under the warmth. She found the bar of rose-scented soap nestled in a ceramic dish beside the tub and used it to scrub away the days of travel, her scent mingling with the oils in the water.

At some point, the world blurred. The candle flames softened at the edges. Her arms draped along the sides of the tub, and her chin tipped forward. Sleep took her like a tide, soundless and deep.

When she stirred again, the first rays of sunset had stained the sky beyond the window, and the candles had burned low. The water had gone tepid. Fox lay on the pillow still, one leg twitching slightly as he dreamed.

Dana stood with care, water cascading from her limbs and hair in quiet rivulets. She reached for the towel and dried herself as best she could, shivering slightly. A search through her bag yielded only one clean garment: her old chemise. 

She slipped it over her head, the fabric thin with wear, and gathered up her filthy clothes and cloak, taking the smooth round stone from the pocket and shoving it into the bottom of her satchel. 

Everything needed laundering. Everything smelled of sweat and smoke and forest. She knew in fine places like this that if she put her fouled clothes in the hallway tonight, they would be clean by morning and her boots would be polished. 

She was halfway to the door with her pile of washing when she heard it—a sniff, followed by a groggy, very human sound.

"Is there still bath water?" Fox asked, voice raspy with sleep.

She turned. He was human now, blinking blearily at her from the floor, propped up onto an elbow.

"Yes," she said. "But it’s gone cold."

"No matter," he murmured, pushing upright and stretching. As he stood, he winced slightly and rotated his shoulders.

She watched him, heart pounding again. He removed his tunic, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches. He looked at her and she quickly looked away. 

"Would it upset the proprietor, do you think," he said, "if you put my clothes out for laundering, as well?"

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. If she put what he was wearing into the hallway for washing, he’d have nothing left to wear.

"Of course," she said quickly, trying to cover her embarrassment. "I’ll say they’re my brother’s if anyone asks. I have a full bag here, though. I doubt anyone will notice."

He nodded. She turned away, her face burning as she heard the rustle of fabric behind her. The sound of him stepping into the bath followed—a soft splash, then a hiss at the cold. But his groan afterward was one of pleasure.

Keeping her gaze averted, she hustled over and gathered his clothing and boots, opening the door just wide enough to slide the bundle out next to hers. The bottle of wine was waiting there. She picked it up and returned, sliding the lock closed behind her.

He was standing in the tub now, turned away from her, lathering his arms and chest with the soap she’d used earlier. Water poured down his back. He was lean and strong, his skin marked with old scars and bruises. She could see... well, all of him. The back of him, anyway.

She turned quickly, her heart thrumming.

She poured herself a glass of wine with shaking fingers and took a sip. Then another. The taste was dry and red and warm. She lifted the lid on the plate of his food, needing to busy her hands. Still warm. She heard the water slosh behind her.

Footsteps. A rustle.

She thought of him rubbing the same towel she’d used over his own body. 

After a moment, she heard his voice once again. 

"I’m decent," he said softly, echoing the words she'd said to him not long ago in the cave when she was drenched and freezing.

She turned.

He had wrapped one of the bed quilts around his waist. The candlelight flickered across his chest, catching in the lines of his collarbone, the ridges of his ribs.

"I hope you don’t mind," he said.

"No," she said, too fast.

He smiled, slow and soft, and crossed to the table. He lowered himself into the chair with a quiet groan, then lifted the lid on the food and closed his eyes as he inhaled.

She sat across from him. Her chemise clung damply to her back. The wine made her feel warmer than the bath had.

They looked like lovers. Half-dressed. Sharing food in a quiet room scented with lavender and steam. The thought made her laugh.

"What?" he asked, mouth full. Then apologized for the breach in etiquette.

She teased him gently about manners. Mentioned Mildred.

"I guess I must have been raised properly," he said with a small smile.

There was a pause. Then he nodded toward her wine.

She passed it to him. He took a long sip, then handed it back, his fingers brushing hers.

“Ah,” he said, tasting it. She remembered the apple. All this food and drink must taste new to him. He gave her a very long look. But she wasn’t discomfited with it. Wasn’t even embarrassed. Was just pleased to be able to do the same. To look at him in good light, in safety, to drink her fill of him. To sit at a civilized table. 

After a long moment, he leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. He was a large man, especially compared to her, and the chair knew it. 

Finally, he inhaled expansively. 

"We’re beginning to communicate," he said, tapping the side of his head.

She licked the wine from her lips.

"Yes," she whispered. "I... I think we are."

Outside the window, the last light of dusk slipped away.

Chapter 19

Notes:

I'm going to keep thank you guys for commenting because you have no idea how much it helps. I probably would have stepped back at least for a hot minute if not for the momentum of them that keeps me going. I salute you, commenters. This is for you.

"It's part of my magic, isn't it? Speaking to each other... in our heads?"

They were still seated at the small table in the corner of the inn room, the remnants of their shared meal between them. The fire had burned low but steady, its flames casting soft gold shadows on the walls. A wind picked up outside, rustling the shutters like a mother hushing a child. Dana could smell the storm on the horizon—earthy, electric.

Fox was still chewing, slowly, as if reluctant to finish. The food had long gone cold, but he didn’t seem to care. When she offered the wine, he took it, sipped, and passed it back. Their fingers brushed. A spark—not magical, just... human.

She shifted in her seat, tucking one leg beneath her, trying to ignore the heat rising beneath her skin.

Fox looked up and nodded. "I think there are limits," he said carefully. "But yes. A witch communicates with her familiar. And the familiar answers."

"With thoughts?" she asked.

"I believe so."

She narrowed her eyes, teasing. "You believe..."

He gave a small, sheepish smile. "I’m following instincts, not instruction. I don’t know how I know—it’s just there. How to guard you. How to listen. How the magic works... or how it’s meant to, anyway."

Magic between them.

She must have gone quiet too long, because he exhaled hard through his nose and said, more rawly, “The only thing in my head, Dana—the only thing that’s ever clear—is this one thing. It screams at me. Sometimes it’s so loud it brings me to my knees.”

She stared. “The one thing?”

His gaze held hers. "That I am yours."

Her throat tightened. “My familiar?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at her, steady as stone. "Yes." Then, softer—not aloud but brushing her mind like wind against leaves: That too.

Her breath caught. She straightened. “I heard you again.”

He blinked, then sat up straighter. “You did?”

They both flushed—awkwardness blooming, then chased away by the quiet thrill of it.

“This matters,” he said. “The talking between us. It’s important. I know it is. We need to get better at it.”

“Practice?” she asked.

“If you’re willing.”

She leaned back, her chair creaking softly. “I suppose there’s not much else to do while we walk.”

He smiled—gentle, easy. “I suppose not.”

“So how would we do that?”

“Practice?”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head. “How are we doing it now?”

She laughed—quiet, surprised. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Then I guess we’ll figure it out,” he said, and the moment settled between them like warm cloth.

A hush followed. The storm grumbled in the distance, low and primal. The fire cracked softly.

“This is good,” he said at last, voice quieter now, more serious. “It means you’re coming into your magic.”

He looked at her—steadily, reverently—and she felt the gravity of it. Felt herself seen, not just watched.

“And you’re bringing me with you.”

Dana didn’t know what to say to that. Her throat tightened. The fire popped softly.

She turned her gaze to the window. Something tugged at her memory. She rose, crossed the room, and dug into her satchel until her fingers found the smooth, familiar curve of the stone.

She returned to the table and placed it in front of him.

“Speaking of our magic,” she said. “I meant to ask you about this.”

He leaned forward, studying the markings etched into its surface. Then he looked up at her.

“The marking on it,” she said. “It’s like the runes on Bite. And yet not.”

He glanced back down. “I would agree with that.”

“So…” she pressed. “What is it?”

“The etching? I don’t know.”

“What about the stone?”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t know that either.”

She blinked. “But… you led me to it. Not days after we first met.”

“I did?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. He picked up the stone and turned it in his palm.

Dana nodded. “In your animal form. You led me right to it. Sat beside it. I thought you meant for me to have it. And then, around the fire, days later, you—”

Fox looked at her, expectant.

She remembered that night. His eyes gone dull and gray. The words that had come from him—cold, prophetic: One will fall. Words she was certain he hadn’t remembered saying.

And then his quiet confession: Us.

A wave of heat flushed her skin, chased by a colder undercurrent. She was tired. Stretched thin. Threaded through with too many thoughts—worries, questions, needs.

Fox must have mistaken the look on her face.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, reaching for her hand. “I don’t remember doing that. I don’t know this stone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

She let him hold her hand, let it anchor her. But the stone made her uneasy. She rose again, crossed the room, and tucked it back into her satchel. Out of sight was better—for now.

When she returned to the table, her gaze strayed to the small window and the darkness thrashing just beyond it. What waited out there for them? What other surprises. What other tests.

Lowering herself into the chair again, she turned to him.

“Do you think we got away?” she asked. “From the raven? From the other familiar?”

Fox went still. Not silent, but listening—with something deeper than ears. Like he was reaching outward from the inside.

“I don’t know that either,” he said at last. His voice was quiet, almost reluctant.

Dana stared at the fire. She hated not knowing. But she was so raw. So worn down. The fear didn’t fade—it simply dulled beneath the weight of everything else: the ache in her legs, the throbbing in her temples, the slow, coiling dread in her gut. The question of what might happen if they hadn’t gotten away still clung to her, but she was too threadbare to face it fully.

She took another sip of the wine, felt it warm her from the inside. Then she passed it to him and asked something she’d been wondering about since that morning.

“Does it hurt?” she said, watching his throat as he swallowed. “When you change?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the cup in his hand, studying it as though it held the answer. When he finally spoke, he didn’t lift his gaze.

“Every time.”

She let the words settle. Something in her cracked. The exhaustion, the wine, the grief for Mildred, the loss of her home, the fear and confusion—everything she’d been holding at bay—rushed to the surface, and the tears came fast and hot.

Fox looked up, startled. He sat up straighter, putting the cup down hard enough that some of the liquid sloshed over the edge.

“It’s my fault,” Dana said, her voice trembling. The words didn’t feel logical—but they felt true. Irrefutably true in the bone-deep way grief often does.

“What?” he said, clearly startled. “What’s your fault?”

She couldn’t stop herself. “The pain you feel when you change. Your changing. The fact that you’re bound to me. Mildred and the magic and—none of it makes sense! Nothing makes sense! I am—I don’t—” She broke off into wracking sobs.

Fox was on his feet in a blink, almost toppling the table. He dropped to his knees beside her, his face tight with concern, his hands hovering, unsure what to do.

Dana shook her head and stumbled out of the chair. She launched herself at him.

Her arms wound tight around his neck, and his came around her at once, instinctively. Despite her full weight hitting him, he barely budged. He was solid, strong—immovable in a way that made her feel like a doll in his arms. Small. Safe.

He didn’t flinch or shift or try to pry her off. He just held her, warm and steady, as though her grief was not too much. As though it belonged there.

She melted into him. When his hand came up to cradle the back of her head, a fresh wave of sobs tore free. Her face pressed against bare skin—his shoulder—and her tears soaked into him.

His bare skin.

She inhaled sharply and pulled back just enough to look up at him. His arms stayed firm, anchoring her in place.

What she found on his face startled her.

Not pity. Not confusion.

Adoration.

That soft, stunned look of someone holding something breakable—something precious—and realizing it had leapt into his arms of its own accord.

Dana froze. Her breath hitched, trembling between them.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. One hand still cupped the back of her head, the other splayed warm across her lower back. She could feel his heart beating—slow, deep, steady—a thunder beneath his ribs. She hadn’t realized how badly she needed that sound.

Or how much she’d needed to be held.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice frayed. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said softly.

“I’m stronger than this. I always have been.”

“You’ve been running. Fighting. Holding everything together with both hands and instinct. You don’t have to be strong right now.”

Her throat clenched. She stared down at the tears still glistening on his chest.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted. “Not with you. Not with the magic. Not with any of it.”

His fingers shifted slightly where they rested in her hair. “I do.”

She blinked up at him.

“I know how to follow you,” he said. “Even if you don’t know where we’re going yet. That’s my magic. That’s the part I bring.”

Her lip trembled. “What if I fail you?”

“You won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, without hesitation. “Because I’ll be there. I’m not letting you face this alone.”

She stared at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He meant it. Every word. She felt it—not just in his voice, but in the quiet brush of his thoughts against hers, like the rustle of wind through leaves.

The weight of everything—what she’d lost, the path ahead, the storm outside—settled around her like a cloak. But in the circle of his arms, it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like something she might survive.

His gaze stayed steady, his expression unreadable now, except for the flicker of something deeper—something unspoken.

Slowly, Dana leaned forward again. Her cheek brushed his collarbone. He inhaled softly, carefully, as if afraid to scare her away.

“Hold me?” she asked, her voice muffled against his skin.

He didn’t answer with words.

He shifted them gently, pulling her into his lap, securing her there as though she were something fragile but fiercely important. The firelight painted his arms in amber and shadow. His warmth wrapped around her like a blanket.

And for a long time, they didn’t move.

Outside, the storm broke in earnest. Rain pattered against the window, a reminder that the world still moved beyond the firelit hush. Thunder rolled, low and steady.

Inside, Dana let herself breathe.

And in the steady circle of Fox’s arms, for the first time in weeks—

She slept without dreaming.

Chapter 20

Notes:

Your comments! Your comments! 🙏🏻

It was a sound that woke her. A soft whimper. And then a crashing tumult. 

The storm was upon the city now, lashing the windows with thick sheets of rain. 

She looked down. She was in the bed, tucked in snugly, the scent of lavender and rose wafting up from the clean linen sheets–the scent leftover from her bath. And then, the whimpering sound again. 

She sat up, the quilt falling away, the cool air of the room chilling her. There, on the floor, lay Fox, the other quilt still pulled around his middle, but the rest of him bare–his head resting the pillow she’d laid there for him earlier in the day, the glow of coals in the fireplace weakly lighting his silhouette. 

Another whimper, and then a groan. He shifted on the thin rug upon which he slept, the sound emitting from his throat low and pained.

Dana slipped from the bed without a second thought. The wooden floor was cold under her bare feet, but she ignored it. The fire had gone low, casting little more than a flickering blush of amber light across the room. She knelt beside him, her hand reaching gently for his shoulder.

“Fox,” she whispered.

He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting up too fast, eyes wild with disorientation.

“You were dreaming,” she said, steadying him with her hand. Her palm met the heat of his bare shoulder, and he shuddered beneath her touch.

A breathy, "Yes."

There was sweat on his upper lip, on his brow, dampening the strands of hair that clung to his forehead. His chest was rising and falling quickly, skin stippled in gooseflesh. The quilt had fallen a little from his middle, revealing the smooth, sculpted lines of his torso, the vulnerable angle of his ribs.

Dana rose and crossed to the hearth, feeding in more wood, coaxing the fire back to life. When she turned again, his eyes were on her, glassy but aware.

“What were you dreaming?” she asked softly.

He rubbed at his face with both hands, then lowered one to his side, to the place where the old bruise had been. “I was bound,” he said, panting slightly. “With rope. I’d been thrown against the wall.” His hand lingered at his ribs. “And then…”

He trailed off, squinting like he could pull the rest of it into clarity.

“There was a woman,” he said finally. “The smell of something burning…” He shook his head. “It’s always just out of reach.”

“Always?” Dana asked curiously, turning to the table and pouring what was left of the wine into the cup. She came back and handed it to him.

He took it gratefully, the tremble in his hand more subtle now, and drank deep. “It’s not the first time I’ve had the dream,” he said, passing the cup back to her. 

She nodded. Thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s not a dream at all, but a memory.”

Fox shook his head slowly. “If those are the memories of my past, it may be for the best that they stay hidden.”

As he spoke, Dana noticed his skin still prickled with gooseflesh. The fire was growing, but the chill lingered. It clung to her too—sharp and permeating—and only then did she realize she was still just in her threadbare chemise. A shiver rolled through her, tightening across her arms, her chest. She saw the flick of his eyes—brief, instinctual—drop to where the fabric pulled taut against her breasts, her nipples pebbled and jutting beneath it. Just a glance, quickly averted. But seen.

Her cheeks flushed hot.

She stood a little straighter, heart thudding.

“Come to the bed,” she said softly. “The room is cold. And you…”

She hesitated, gathering the words with care.

“You’re the one who filled the purse today. You deserve to enjoy the comforts of your labor.”

His gaze lifted to hers. Clearer now. Focused.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice quieter than she expected.

“Yes,” she said, pulse thudding in her throat. “I’m sure.”

She stood, offering her hand.

He took it.

She pulled, but his weight was solid. He rose of his own strength, though his hand lingered in hers, calloused fingers curling gently around hers.

They looked at each other for a long, quiet moment.

Then she turned, still holding his hand, and guided him toward the bed.

Not a word passed between them.

She slid beneath the covers first, and he followed, cautious, careful not to crowd her. He pulled the quilt he’d wrapped around himself and threw it over the both of them once he was fully covered. 

Dana lay on her side, facing him in the dim firelight. He turned to face her.

The air between them was heavy with storm and the echoes of his dream and the thrum of something new. The kind of silence that wasn't absence, but possibility.

She reached for him, fingers light on his arm.

“No more sleeping on the floor,” she whispered. “Winter is coming. You’ll sleep next to me. Under this roof or any other.”

He gave her a soft smile. “Even under a ceiling of stars?”

“Especially then,” she said seriously.

His smile faded and he nodded at her, solemn. “Okay,” he answered, his voice even quieter than hers.

She felt the warmth of his hand find hers again beneath the quilt.

Their fingers twined.

“We should leave before the sun rises,” he said softly. “When we can both walk out on two feet.”

She knew he was right. Of course he was. But she didn’t want to go. Not yet. She wanted to stay in this bed, tangled in warmth and silence, trading secrets and half-whispered stories.

“I’m starting,” she murmured, “to resent the dawn.”

Across the pillow, he looked at her plainly. “You’re not alone in that.”

The weight of it settled between them. An admission. A shared ache. And she felt guilty for what he went through. Every day. At dawn and dusk.

She wet her lips. “We have enough coin for another night,” she whispered.

His gaze softened.

“What I wouldn’t give to spend another night and day here with you,” he said, voice low and rough. “But I’m a liability to you here. In whatever form I take.”

“I’ll say you’re my husband,” she said, sudden fierceness sparking in her chest.

He held her gaze. “And when the sun rises?”

Dana shut her eyes, unwilling to let him see the tears gathering there.

A beat of silence. Then a light touch—his fingertip beneath her chin. His thoughts brushed hers like wind through tall grass: Dana…

She opened her eyes. A tear slipped free and darkened the pillow beneath her. He was already watching her, eyes flitting from hers to her lips, then back again. A hot curl of anticipation bloomed in her stomach as he leaned closer, tilting her face toward his.

Their mouths were only a breath apart when—

BOOM! Lightning split the sky, and thunder cracked so loudly the windowpanes rattled.

She gasped and flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he said at once, pulling back.

“No,” she blurted, reaching for the words. “I—”

From the hallway came a thud. The sound of something being dropped.

Their clothes. Freshly laundered. Boots, polished. Left just outside the door.

Fox turned toward the noise, then back to her, wearing a small, almost sheepish smile.

“We should dress,” he said. “And as soon as the storm passes, make our way to the rear gate.”

Chapter 21

Notes:

I can’t thank you guys enough for your continued comments. They provide the hit of dopamine that keeps me writing!

They dressed, though not hurriedly. Fox took the second quilt off the bed and wrapped it around himself once again, moving to the door. He threw back the latch and stuck his head into the hallway, looking both ways, then reached outside and pulled in a large parcel wrapped in worn linen and twine. Their clothing.

She turned to face the wall while he dressed and then he brought the rest of her things to her, setting them gently on the bed along with the quilt.

"There’s hardly anyone about," he said, pulling the cord of his tunic and tying it tight. "I’ll wait for you downstairs."

He gave her a look like he wanted to say or do something more, but then nodded and crept into the hall, quietly closing the door behind him.

Dana fell back onto the bed, pulling the quilt he’d been wearing over her face and breathing in deeply, wondering—marveling—at what had transpired in the last 12 hours. His scent was thick in the material, warm and earthy, threaded through with a hint of soap and something uniquely him. She let herself have one more moment of girlish indulgence before dressing and wrapping her hair in a braid.

Outside, the storm was moving through. The rain had stopped and the echoes of thunder grew more and more distant.

Downstairs, Fox was waiting at the door.

The bottom floor of the inn was dim, still cast in the hazy blue shadows of early morning. The common room lay quiet, its long tables wiped down but empty, chairs tucked in with the order of a night well closed. A single candle burned low near the hearth, casting flickers of gold against the soot-dark stone. The fire had long since gone out, leaving behind the smell of ash and charred wood. From the kitchen beyond a half-open swinging door came the faint clatter of a pan and the muffled voice of someone humming—likely a cook starting the morning prep. A kettle whistled faintly, and somewhere deeper in the back a dog gave a single, sleepy bark. Whatever laundress had brought up their clothing must have drifted off to wherever she worked and there was no sign of the innkeeper. No one to question who Fox was or why he was there. That was a blessing.

He held the door open when she descended, and they stepped out into the hushed blue of predawn.

The streets glistened with the remnants of the storm, cobbles slick and shining like oil-slicked glass. Rain dripped in steady rhythms from eaves and gutters, and the stars were hidden, the sky hung low with bruised clouds slowly retreating to the east. The air was sharp, the kind that stung the inside of your nose when you inhaled too deeply. Dana pulled her cloak tighter around her, and Fox instinctively offered her his hand.

She took it.

They didn’t speak. Just moved as one, walking quickly and quietly, their joined hands swinging slightly between them. There was something reverent in the silence. Something sacred.

Fox’s eyes scanned the rooftops, constantly in motion. A flick here, a dart there. Watching. Waiting. Searching for the glint of black feathers or the glimmer of glass-eyed menace. But there was nothing. Just the occasional shuffle of a rat in the alley, or the distant creak of a weather-worn sign swaying on its hinge.

The closer they drew to the rear gate, the narrower the streets became. Buildings hunched low, leaning close like old gossips whispering over a fence. Moss and ivy clung to cracked stone, and broken shutters dangled from rusted hinges. The rear gate itself was nothing like the grand entrances at the front of the city—it was a squat, iron-bound thing, set into thick stone and half-concealed by a cluster of sheds and workshops. Less traffic came this way, and that was the point. It was a servant’s gate, a tradesman’s entry.

When they reached it, a squat, red-faced guard sat slouched on a stool beneath an overhang, chewing on the remains of a salted biscuit. His eyes flicked up lazily as they approached, but sharpened as he saw Fox’s height and the wary set of his jaw.

"Closed till sunrise," the man grunted.

Fox looked at Dana, who reached into her belt pouch and handed Fox a few coins. He flicked a small silver shilling into the man’s hand.

The guard turned it over with his thumb, eyes suddenly a little brighter. "It wasn't I who let you out."

"Nay," Fox said. "It was your captain."

The man chuffed a laugh and rose.

The bolt was drawn back with a low scrape, and the gate creaked open just wide enough to admit them. Dana ducked through first, then turned to wait for him. When he slipped through, he gave the guard a small nod, and the gate shut behind them with a soft finality.

Outside, the world was quieter still. The road beyond the city walls was churned mud and standing water, the trees dripping like sorrowful sentinels in the first gray wash of day. Dana’s boots sank into the softened earth, and she grimaced, pulling up her cloak to save the freshly washed hem. Fox was still scanning the sky, but there was no raven. No flash of wings. No scratching of claws against slate.

Only a single moth.

It flitted near Dana’s shoulder, wings delicate and spotted with two large black dots. It came to rest briefly on the cold stone wall near the gate. Its wings opened and closed once. Twice. Then it fluttered up and vanished into the chill.

Fox started down the rutted road, his hand still wrapped firmly around hers.

"Let’s move," he said softly. "We’re not safe yet."

She nodded. Together, they moved down the muddy path, the city falling away behind them like a dream already fading in the light.

The day had not yet begun. But already, it felt like it was full of promise. And danger. 

***

They walked fast. Dawn was close now—pale silver gathering on the horizon. The road was open, too exposed for Fox’s liking. His head remained on a swivel, scanning the skies, the treetops, the rocks along the edge of the path.

He still held her hand. Neither of them had spoken since the gate, but her thoughts were far from silent. Dana kept turning over the night before in her mind—the closeness, the heat of him beside her. The way her heart had stuttered under his gaze. What might have happened had thunder not intervened. What still might.

She flushed, trying to shake the thoughts loose—but beside her, Fox slowed. Then stopped entirely.

She looked up.

He was staring at her. Eyes wide. Chest rising and falling a little too fast. His pupils were blown, black and glassy. Something primal shimmered beneath the surface of his control.

Dana opened her mouth to speak, but the question never made it past her lips.

Fox stepped closer, and her heart faltered in her chest. He didn’t touch her—just looked. A gaze that told her that he knew what she hadn’t dared to say aloud. That he had heard it anyway.

Her breath hitched, caught between hope and disbelief.

The air between them seemed to shift, thick with something unspoken. Her own longing shimmered back at her in his eyes—recognized, mirrored, answered.

Her stomach turned over. Her lips parted, but still she said nothing.

She didn’t have to.

He was already leaning in, slow and sure.

“Forgive me,” he whispered—and then his mouth found hers.

It was like striking flint to dry tinder. Instant flame. Her whole body ignited—heat curling down her spine, blooming beneath her skin. She gasped into his mouth, and he reached out to pull her close, deepening the kiss with a hunger that made her bones feel loose, her thoughts scattered to the wind.

She didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to breathe, or move, or let the moment pass.

But light spilled over the treetops—a beam of gold cutting through the blue hush of dawn.

Fox pulled back from her, his eyes shining with magic and something else, and he tensed beneath her hands.

And then—he was changing.

It happened too fast.

His back bowed, bones shifting with a sickening elegance. She could hear them snapping and creaking and shuddered at the sound. 

Skin gave way to fur, russet and gleaming in the morning light. His hands—hands that had just been holding her—twisted and cracked, reshaping into paws. A growl broke from his chest, more pained than fierce, and then he was gone.

Gone, and not.

Where he had stood, only the fox remained. Breathing hard. Chest heaving. Eyes bright and wild.

Dana stood frozen, heart slamming against her ribs. Her lips still tingled. Her hands hung in the air, still reaching for him—empty now.

And the ache hit her, sudden and sharp.

That kiss. That spark. The way her skin had lit up, crackling and bright like birch bark catching flame. For a heartbeat, she’d felt something sacred blooming between them—new, unspoken, alive.

And then he was gone. Changed. 

She could have wept with the loss. 

She understood where it might have led—what the kiss had been building toward. She did. She may have been innocent, untouched, but she wasn’t naive. She’d grown up around animals. Around people who thought themselves subtle in their trysts. She knew what came after a kiss like that. What should have come next.

And for the first time in her life, she’d wanted it.

Not blindly, not because it was expected. Because it had felt right . Charged and sacred and new. The way her body had responded—alive with sparks, every nerve reaching toward him—hadn't scared her. It had made her feel real. Desired. Seen.

And now it was gone.

The kiss was over. The moment shattered. And in its place, only silence. Only fur. Only the aching, empty space of what could’ve been.

And the forest, as always, watched and said nothing.

Chapter 22

Notes:

Thank you so much for your comments!!!

They walked for hours, the silence between them stretching long and thin as the afternoon light shifted toward gold.

Fox brushed against her thoughts now and then—light touches like fingers against a closed door. He was trying to speak to her, she knew. Practicing, as they’d discussed the day before. But she couldn’t bring herself to open that door. Not yet. She was distracted. Distant. Still aching from the moment that had been cut short. Still wanting more.

Eventually, he stopped trying.

Dana tried to hold on to the kiss—its warmth, its spark, the sensation of something just beginning to bloom—but the forest had grown tense around them. By the time the sun began to sink behind the trees, Fox was no longer calm. He kept trotting ahead, lifting his nose to taste the wind, ears twitching, shoulders taut with unease.

She felt it too. A prickle at the base of her neck. A weight behind her, as if unseen eyes had taken root in the shadows.

Then came the cry.

High and distant. Sharp as a blade. The raven.

Dana stopped cold. Her heart stuttered, then surged against her ribs.

“ Run! ”

It wasn’t a sound—not really—but the word surged through her anyway, alive with meaning. Fox’s voice, unmistakable, filled her head. Clear. Urgent.

He shot into the trees.

She ran after him.

The world narrowed to motion—branches tearing at her arms, roots lunging from the ground. The forest blurred as she chased the flash of russet fur ahead. Fox kept glancing back, his eyes like twin coals in the dark underbrush, checking for her. Willing her to keep going.

She pushed harder, lungs raw, her breath ragged in her throat.

At the top of a rise, she risked a look behind. 

The raven was there—circling low above the trees, wings outstretched, silent and black against the darkening sky. And beneath it, a figure.

Tall. Motionless. Cloaked.

A man stood at the base of the hill, a staff in hand, its top pulsing with a dull green glow visible even at this distance. His hat curled upward like smoke rising—strange and unnatural against the darkening trees.

Watching.

Waiting.

Her blood ran cold.

Another caw echoed—closer now. 

She didn’t stop to think. Just ran, her satchel bouncing against her back, Bite thudding against her side.

Through briar and vine and thorns that tore at her cloak and caught at her skin, Dana plunged forward, branches whipping her face and tangling in her hair. The ground sloped steeply, giving way beneath her boots, slick with moss and crumbling stone. She stumbled, caught herself, kept running.

Somewhere ahead, she heard it—the low, constant hush of moving water.

It rose quickly, shifting from a whisper to a murmur to a roar. The sound swelled with every step, deep and relentless.

Fox veered sharply toward it, darting between two leaning trees, leaping clean over a fallen log slick with rot. His paws skidded on the muddy ground, sending up sprays of earth as he turned.

Dana followed without hesitation. Her feet slid out from under her more than once, her hands catching anything she could—roots slick with rain, jagged rocks, the wild thrum of fear propelling her forward. Her breath tore ragged from her throat. Her heart beat in her ears like a drum.

Then, without warning, the trees gave way.

A pool churned white and furious at the base of a great waterfall, a river of rapids rushing away from it, the water swift and pulsing. The spray hit her face in cold bursts. Fox had already begun climbing up the narrow ledge beside the cataract, threading his way up what was barely passable, paws scrambling on the slick incline.

Dana threw herself after him, dragging her body up the wet rocks inch by inch. Mud coated her palms. Her legs trembled. Her lungs burned.

Ahead, he vanished.

Straight through the wall of falling water.

She followed him without hesitation.

The cold hit like a slap, the curtain of water pounding against her shoulders as she pushed through—then stumbled into dimness.

A hollow.

Small. Damp. Carved from rock and hidden by the waterfall’s veil. It smelled of mineral and moss. She could barely make out the bedraggled hump of Fox only a few feet in front of her. 

Dana collapsed against the stone wall, trembling, her body wrung out and waterlogged.

Yesterday, she’d soaked in a warm bath, tucked into soft linen. This morning, there had been a kiss—tentative, but hot, full of promise.

Now, there was only cold.

Only the sound of the water thundering just beyond.

Only him.

Chapter 23

Notes:

You guys, your comments are keeping me going!

Today, Naught_but_an_Afterthought begged for another chapter, and I'm going to to give it. If only because the last chapter was so short.

But also, be careful what you wish for...because we just took the turn into Act II...

They were drenched. Dana’s clothes clung to her skin, her hair plastered to her cheeks as she leaned against the stone wall catching her breath. Fox sat a few feet away, fur matted and dripping, flanks rising and falling with each breath. His eyes were watchful, his ears twitching now and then at the roar of water pounding just beyond the cavern’s veil.

The sound was deafening, a steady roar that filled the space, vibrating through stone and bone. Mist clung to them, curling in pale tendrils like breath made visible. It wasn’t warm, it wasn’t comfort—but it was hidden, for now, from whoever it was that followed them.

Dana lowered herself to the wet stone floor and sat cross-legged, arms wrapped around her chest. Every inch of her ached from running, climbing, surviving. The cold had sunk into her bones, and she was trembling with it. But they were alive. For the moment.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t want to. Just let the silence stretch.

After a while, she noticed it—a faint warmth at her hip.

Her satchel.

She sat up straighter and unbuckled the flap. The warmth intensified, a slow pulse against her fingers. She reached in and pulled out the stone.

It was glowing again.

Green light flared softly from the etched surface, casting shifting shadows along the walls of the small cavern. The markings shimmered faintly, clearer now than ever before.

Dana turned toward Fox—and startled.

He was still there, still seated, but his golden eyes had gone pale. Not white. Not blind. Gray. Like smoke drifting over still water.

She gasped and dropped the stone. It hit the wet floor with a small splash and skittered away into the shadows.

"No—!" She scrambled after it, panic lancing through her. The glow was already dimming.

She groped blindly in the dark, palms scraping cold stone. Her breath came fast. The roar of the waterfall behind her was relentless, making it hard to think. Hard to breathe.

Then—she felt it.

Not the stone.

Fox.

"Dana?"

His voice.

She whipped around.

He was standing there in the shadows, his tunic soaked and clinging to him, chest heaving from exertion. Human again. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his jaw tight, a thin scrape bleeding at his temple. He looked like he’d been torn apart and put back together in a hurry.

“Fox!”

She ran to him without thinking. He caught her mid-step, arms locking around her in a hold so solid, so sudden, it knocked the breath from her lungs.

They stood there for a beat—just holding on.

He was shaking. So was she. Not from the cold, though that was part of it. From everything. From the running. From the fear.

And from something else.

She felt it in the way his hand slid to the back of her neck. In the way his breath caught when she curled her fingers into the soaked fabric of his tunic.

That morning, they’d kissed like the world had fallen away.

And then it had.

Now here they were again, breathless and clinging to each other in the dark, as if the dawn hadn’t torn them apart. As if the world might hold still for just one more moment.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. Water clung to his lashes. His lips were parted like he might speak. So were hers.

But nothing came.

Instead, she let her forehead rest against his collarbone, eyes closing against the ache of everything she didn’t know how to say.

Then, softly, she whispered, “The stone. With the etching. I dropped it. Help me find it?”

He nodded and released her gently. "We need to be quick."

The sound of the torrent was overwhelming now, a constant pressure against the world. They crouched low, feeling across the wet floor.

"I can’t see a damn thing," she muttered, hands slipping over slick stone.

"We need light," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the rush.

There was a faint amber glow behind the waterfall—the last rays of the setting sun—but it was fading fast.

Dana closed her eyes, trying to calm the panic rising in her chest. She focused on the stone. On the shape of it. On what it had felt like in her hand. On what she needed.

And then—something.

A prickling sensation. A pulse.

Fox’s thoughts brushed hers.

That—hold onto it!

Her eyes flew open.

In her palm, a tiny light sparked to life. Weak, flickering, but enough.

Fox gazed at the light, his eyes wide, his expression one of exhilaration. 

"Your magic," he muttered. 

But there was no time to dwell on this new power. Her eyes scanned the wet floor at their feet.

"There!" she pointed.

Fox lunged forward and scooped up the stone. As soon as he touched it, they both froze.

A sudden awareness pressed in around them. They weren’t alone.

Somewhere beyond the waterfall. Close.

The man. And his familiar.

The light in her palm winked out.

"What do we do?" she whispered.

Fox turned slowly toward the wall of water. His jaw was set.

"We jump," he said.

Dana stared at him. Her heart kicked. The roar outside wasn’t just sound—it was danger incarnate.

"Jump?"

"There’s a pool below," he said, urgency sharpening his voice. "Deep enough. I saw it earlier when I climbed the bank. It’s fast-moving, but it’s our only way out."

“What if we hit the rocks?”

“We won’t,” Fox said. “The pool’s wide. Deep. The current will carry us downriver, away from the raven, away from the man. It’s a risk—but it’s better than waiting.”

Waiting meant being trapped.

Being caught.

Dana’s eyes flicked to the waterfall, to the cold, relentless veil that separated them from whatever hunted on the other side.

She didn’t need to ask what came next. She already knew.

Fox held out his hand. “We go together. And we don’t let go.”

A low, grinding sound echoed faintly from the passage they came through. Something shifting. Something moving.

Dana’s breath caught and she took his hand.

"They’re close," Fox said, tense. "Maybe one turn away."

The pressure in the air thickened. Mist billowed into the cavern like breath exhaled by a monster. The dying daylight behind the falls dimmed.

She looked down at their joined hands. At the water veiling their escape. It felt mad. Desperate. But there was no time left for anything else.

"What if we drown?"

His grip tightened.

"Then we drown together."

She swallowed hard and nodded.

They stood, facing the wall of water. The roar was everywhere. The light was gone.

Another sound—closer now. A scrape of stone on stone.

Fox met her eyes. "Ready?"

"No."

He smiled faintly. "Me neither."

Together, they ran.

And jumped.

Chapter 24

The water hit them like a wall.

Cold. Unyielding. A roaring fist that punched the air from her lungs and stole every sense but motion. For a breathless second, Dana was nowhere and nothing—just pain, just chill, just the sheer impact of the waterfall driving her downward. Her scream was lost in the torrent.

Her hand. Where was his hand?

She kicked and twisted, her legs flailing against the pull of the river, but Fox’s fingers—warm only moments before—had slipped from hers like a thread torn loose. The current spun her sideways, a dizzying spiral of bubbles and weightlessness, her cloak wrapping around her legs like a snare.

She slammed into a submerged boulder and the shock of it ripped the breath from her again. Her boots scraped across stone. Something hard bruised her hip. She fought to surface, the satchel bouncing against her back like an anchor. Up. She had to get up.

A shimmer broke overhead—faint and shifting, like moonlight filtering through mist—and she surged toward it, arms burning, lungs aching. When she finally burst through, the air felt razor-sharp in her throat.

There—just ahead—a shape.

A dark head bobbing up from the water, slick hair plastered to a too-pale face. Arms thrashing. Fox.

Relief and panic warred inside her. She didn’t shout. She didn’t dare. Somewhere behind them—maybe far, maybe near—the man with the staff could still be tracking them. Listening. The waterfall had covered their escape, but not forever.

Instead, she lunged forward, teeth clenched, her strokes ragged. The water poured around her like a beast with a mind of its own. But she was gaining on him—reaching—

Their eyes connected. Their fingers brushed.

Then the current surged.

It tore them apart like parchment in the rain. A swell of whitewater cascaded between them, and Dana was flung sideways into a jagged outcrop. Pain radiated through her ribs. Her vision blurred. She choked and spat river from her mouth.

When she looked again, she was spinning backward, helpless as the river’s fury dragged her farther away. A rock-laced bend loomed ahead. She clawed toward the surface, gasping, and glimpsed him once more.

Fox’s face. Straining toward her. Mouth open. Desperate.

The river split—two wild branches veering off into the trees like the claws of some ancient beast.

He went left.

Dana kicked. Hard. Tried to follow. But the water caught her legs and dragged her right. Her whole body twisted against the current, trying to resist, trying to change course—but it was no use.

"No," she sputtered, powerless. Her limbs ached. Her body refused her commands.

She fought for him. For one more stroke. For one more reach of her hand.

But the river had other plans.

A jutting rock caught her shoulder, spinning her again. The world whirled. Cold and dark and white with foam.

Then—

A crack of pain.

Something slammed into the side of her head. Her vision exploded in stars and shadows. The river swallowed her whole.

She sank.

Her body drifted weightless. Numb. Her arms floated out beside her. Her legs refused to kick.

She could still feel the cold. The press of water. The echo of her name in her skull, even if no one had spoken it.

And then—

Nothing.

Only black.

Notes:

I'm "sorry" you guys, story beats are called beats for a reason, I love you.

Chapter 25

Summary:

Thank you for those of you continuing to comment! It makes all the difference in the world.

In the end, it was her satchel that saved her.

The strap had snagged on a crooked branch that jutted out over the river, jerking her to a sudden halt. The current had tried to claim her, tumbling her through rapids and rocks, but the leather caught fast and held. When she came to, Dana was half-submerged in a dark, eddying pool just off the main current, her body bobbing like some forgotten tethered offering sacrificed to the god of the river.

Everything hurt. Her ribs. Her arms. Her legs. Her head ached with the dull, pulsing throb of a deep bruise. Her wet clothes clung like a second skin—cold, sodden, and heavy. Each breath felt like dragging iron through her chest.

The sky above was pitch black, cloaked in moonless night. No stars peeked through the clouded canopy. The air had the sharp, wet bite of autumn, and the riverbank trees loomed like skeletal sentinels, their limbs creaking faintly in the wind. Judging by the depth of the dark, it had been an hour. Maybe two.

They had jumped right after sunset.

And the last glimpse she’d had of him—he’d still been fighting. His head above the surface, mouth open in a cry she couldn’t hear, one arm flung forward against the pull of the current. Reaching for her.

That image struck like a blow to the ribs—clear and terrible. 

Her chest clenched. She sucked in a breath too fast and choked on it, coughing hard as her lungs seized. Her body lurched against the water, and her fingers scrabbled instinctively for the branch that tethered her, bark biting into her raw skin. she struggled for a moment to free herself, then gritting her teeth, she dragged herself inch by inch toward the bank. Her arms shook with the effort.

The mud tried to claim her. It slurped at her boots with each movement, cold and thick. She clawed forward on hands and knees, dragging the weight of her soaked satchel until she collapsed onto a patch of earth strewn with wet leaves.

She lay there for a moment, still and shaking, listening.

Then, low and rasping, she forced the name out of her throat.

“Fox!”

The sound cracked through the trees.

No answer. No rustle of movement. No shout. Just the wind curling through bare branches, the trickle and churn of water, and her own hammering pulse.

She clenched her jaw. Her gaze swept the woods.

No second call. If he could answer, he would have.

And if someone else was listening—she’d told them where to find her.

Dana staggered to her feet.

Everything ached—her knees throbbed, her shoulders burned, her boots squelched with each step—but she turned upstream and began to walk.

She needed to get back to the fork. Back to the place where the river had split and taken him from her.

That was the only direction that mattered now.

The woods were thick and the dark was absolute. Tree roots caught at her feet. Branches scraped her arms. She stumbled more than once, catching herself against trunks slick with moss.

But she kept going.

Even without light, without signs, without knowing how far she had drifted—she followed the current backward as best she could.

Because if she could find where they parted, maybe she could find him too.

The thought kept her upright. Moving.

But the cold was eating through her cloak, her skin, her bones. Each step grew heavier, her breath more ragged. She’d stopped shivering—never a good sign. Her limbs felt clumsy. Her pulse sluggish. 

The path before her was nigh on impassable. 

When her foot caught on a root and nearly sent her sprawling, she froze. Pressed a hand to the nearest tree for balance.

No more.

Not tonight.

She looked around, vision swimming in the dark, and spotted a slight rise in the ground—a hollow tucked between the roots of two leaning trees. It was enough. It had to be.

She slipped into it, crouching low. The earth here was only slightly drier, but sheltered. She dropped to her knees and began to gather kindling with stiff, clumsy fingers—dried leaves, brittle twigs, and whatever else she could scavenge from the bramble. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached. The flint almost slipped from her hands.

But she kept going.

Strike. Strike. Spark.

At last, a flicker caught. A tiny flame bloomed into life.

She coaxed it gently into a proper fire and collapsed beside it, fumbling to unwrap her cloak. Even wet, the wool would hold some heat. Her boots came off first. Then her tunic, clinging like ice to her skin. She wrung it out and draped it across a crooked branch. Her leggings followed. Then her underthings—just for a moment—long enough to squeeze them dry and spread them near the flames. She kept her cloak wrapped around her back, her face to the fire.

Slowly, painfully, the shivering began to ease.

Her satchel was at her feet. She pulled it toward herself and opened the flap with careful fingers.

The book was there—wrapped in oilcloth, tied with twine. She pulled it out and held it close for a moment. Just a small volume of common plants and their uses, bought in the first nameless village they passed through. She hadn’t known why she wanted it then. She still wasn’t sure.

But she was glad she had it.

She set it aside.

Inside the satchel, she also found a spare linen shirt, still damp—but not soaked. A strip of dried meat. A roll of bandages. A pouch of dried berries and a vial of salt. She had bought them in Highmere, barely thinking. Now they felt like lifelines.

She rifled through the rest—and froze.

The round stone was missing.

Her breath caught. She searched again, more frantically. It was nowhere to be found.

And then she remembered. 

Fox had it. 

Just before they had jumped into the falls, he had picked it up.

A knot rose in her throat. She shut her eyes and clutched the cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Of course he had it. Of course he’d carried it. That was what he did . Quietly. Constantly.

He kept her warm. Kept watch when she slept. She’d never had to think about things like fire. Or exposure. Or where her blade was, or whether someone was near.

Because he always was.

Because that was what they were. That’s what they’d become. 

Her hand dropped instinctively to her belt.

Bite.

The blade had been on her when she fell. She unclasped the sheath and drew it all the out, inspecting the edge—still sharp, unmarred. She laid it across her knees and kept it close.

The fire cracked and spit.

She jumped.

It was ridiculous. But everything felt exposed. Her clothes were scattered across rocks and roots, steaming in the heat. She was alone in a pocket of light and warmth surrounded by miles of dark.

She missed him so badly it made her chest ache.

His steadiness. His silence. The way he watched her without needing to be asked.

And more than that—what had bloomed between them.

She thought of his hand in hers as they stood in the swirling mist behind the waterfall, seconds before they jumped. The look in his eyes. Not fear.

Faith.

She took a breath. Closed her eyes. And reached—not with panic. Not even with desperation. With focus.

Fox , she thought. If you can hear me—

No response. Not even a flicker of recognition in the air.

But after a moment… something in her stirred. Not a word. Not a pull. Just a whisper, low and wordless, somewhere in her chest.

He was alive.

She didn’t know it. But she felt it.

And that was enough.

She opened her eyes and looked down at the blade resting across her knees.

The runes on the blade and along the hilt shimmered faintly in the firelight—worn grooves, familiar shapes. But one of them—

Her breath caught.

Where there had always been a jagged, angular mark, she now saw a word. Plain as ink on parchment.

North.

It wasn’t a guess. It wasn’t a feeling. The letters were there. She could see them.

She reached out, slowly, and touched the word with her fingertip.

But she didn’t feel letters.

Not N. Not O. Not R.

Her skin traced the same rune she’d always known—the same harsh curve, the same etched line. The carving hadn’t changed at all.

Her pulse quickened. A chill prickled the back of her neck.

It wasn’t the blade that had shifted.

It was her.

The magic wasn’t just stirring anymore.

It had started to speak.

She wasn’t sure where Fox was. She had no map, no sign.

But she had a direction. The one they had been going since almost the beginning. 

And if he was searching for her—he would go north too.

She stared into the fire a moment longer.

Then she curled tighter into her cloak, one hand on her blade, and whispered into the dark—

“Find me.”

Chapter 26

Notes:

I only have two more fully completed chapters, so chapter releases will be slowing down here as we move forward. Again, I can't thank you enough for your comments. They've kept me writing at a blazing pace. And they're continuing to help me! We've just gotten into Act II where there are a LOT of moving parts. And that takes a little more care. Especially in a WIP. I hope I don't lose any of you, but thanks for sticking with me so far!

Pain dragged him back into the world.

It started low, pulsing behind his knee—then flared sharp and white through his entire leg the moment he tried to move. He hissed through his teeth, swallowing a sound that might have been a curse. Stars danced at the edges of his vision. He lay still, waiting for them to clear.

The night was cold. Damp. The ground beneath him sucked heat from his skin. He could hear the river nearby, its voice steady and unbothered, as if it hadn’t tried to kill them both hours earlier. Trees crowded in above him, branches black against a sky without stars.

His leg was wrecked.

He didn’t need to touch it to know. The swelling had already set in, tight and hot. His ankle might be broken—or worse.

He shifted, bracing on one elbow, and the pain stabbed so sharply he nearly blacked out.

The memory came rushing in.

He’d hit the water hard. One moment, Dana’s hand was in his—the next, the current had ripped them apart. Then the rock. Half-submerged, invisible until it wasn’t. He’d slammed into it sideways, his ankle twisting with a sickening crunch before the force of the river flipped him over.

He’d tried to scream but swallowed water instead.

The current had dragged him under, tossing him like driftwood. He barely remembered clawing himself free—just the taste of mud and leaves as he’d pulled himself onto the bank, shaking and breathless. One arm at a time. No direction. No strength.

Just the need to survive.

He must have passed out not long after.

Now he was here. Cold. Alone.

And Dana—

The thought landed hard, cracking through the fog in his mind. He sucked in a breath, looking around as if she might be there, just out of sight. But the trees were empty. No footsteps. No flicker of movement. No familiar voice.

He reached for her—quietly, instinctively.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

It felt like reaching into a void.

Panic started to rise. He fumbled for something to hold onto—anything—and his hand brushed the edge of his pocket. Heat pulsed there.

Fox drew it out carefully.

The smooth stone Dana had dropped behind the waterfall. He’d picked it up without thinking—because it felt important to her. Because it hummed like it had been waiting.

It was warm now. Not hot, but alive. A steady thrum, like something remembering.

He turned it over in his palm. It didn’t glow, not exactly. But it pulsed faintly with something old. Something he didn’t understand.

Whatever it was, it mattered to her.

Which meant it mattered to him.

He needed to keep it safe. But pockets didn’t carry through when he shifted. He’d tried that before—coins, tools, a letter once. All vanished in the change. The only thing that returned were his clothes, like the magic had claimed them as part of him.

He couldn’t shift now. Dusk had passed, and dawn was still hours away.

Fox untied the leather cord from the collar of his tunic and wrapped the stone carefully, binding it tight. Then he looped it around his neck and pulled it snug against his skin, pressed tight to his jugular notch.

If he wore it like a collar, the magic wouldn’t need to accept it to let it pass through. It would be around his neck as a human and remain there as a fox. 

It was the only idea he had.

And now he needed to address some other important things. Like survival. 

No fire. He had no tinder, and Dana carried the flint. Even if he could start one, he wasn’t sure it would be wise. Whoever had been tracking them before— they might still be near. The man on the hill. The raven.

Better to stay cold than get found.

He curled in on himself, arms pulled to his chest. The pain in his leg was a dull, grinding thing now. He let his eyes slip shut.

The cold was biting at the edges of his thoughts, dulling them. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat. The damp earth pressed into his side. He breathed as shallowly as he could, trying not to aggravate the pain. 

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under.

***

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep—minutes, an hour, more. Dawn was not far off. But the next thing he knew, something tickled his face.

He twitched, eyes fluttering open. A pale moth had landed on his cheek, its wings as still and delicate as pressed parchment.

He blinked at it, too dazed to move.

It lifted. Drifted upward on silent wings.

And behind it—just beyond the flicker of its passing—he saw the eyes.

A figure stood at the edge of the trees.

Not Dana.

Not anyone he knew.

Tall. Still. Dressed in strange layers that didn’t match the season or the terrain. A cloak with too many folds. An odd hat that twisted crookedly toward the sky. And beside him, perched on a low branch, the raven.

Fox didn’t move.

His fingers twitched once near the ground—instinct, muscle memory, a ghost of the blade he wasn’t holding.

The man tilted his head, studying him. His face was unreadable. Eyes like frozen iron. Ancient, but not in the way of age.

"You’ve lost your witch," the man said.

His voice wasn’t cruel.

It was worse than that.

It was calm.

Fox didn’t respond. Not immediately. Every instinct in him was coiled, screaming. His leg throbbed with pain, but his mind stayed sharp. He’d thought he was alone. He’d thought—

“You’re thinking I’m here to kill you,” the man went on, stepping closer. His boots made no sound on the damp earth. “Or to wring some information out of you. About the girl.”

Fox didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“Isn’t that what you’re thinking?” the man asked, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Say something.”

“…Are you?” Fox rasped, voice low. “Here to kill me?”

The man tilted his head again. He looked amused.

“If I were here to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

Fox’s fingers twitched again in the leaves.

“You’ve nothing on you,” the man added. “Not a blade. Not even your teeth.”

The raven cawed once, low and sharp, as if affirming the point.

Fox’s jaw clenched. 

“You’ve lost your witch,” the man said again, softer this time. “You might think that makes you weak. Unprotected.”

Fox didn’t answer.

It wasn’t he who was unprotected.

It was Dana.

And that knowledge burned through him—hot, helpless, maddening. He had failed her. She was out there alone, and he wasn’t at her side to shield her from what came next.

He would tear the world apart to fix that.

The man’s smile widened, slow and knowing.

“Ah, you see? It doesn’t make you weak,” the man said. “It makes you dangerous.”

Fox’s jaw tightened. The cryptic talk was starting to grate. “Who are you?”

“You don’t recognize me?” the man asked. 

Fox would have gotten up and left if he’d been able. “Say your name and be done with it.”

“I’ve been called many things,” the man said, tone light but laced with something colder. “Most people are afraid of me. Think me unnatural.”

That, at least, rang true. Everything about the man—the way he moved, the way he spoke—felt off-kilter. Like a creature imitating something human.

Fox eyed him warily. “Aren’t you?”

The man gave a quiet laugh, low and rasping. “We both are. But in opposite ways.”

He stepped forward.

“I am a man who used to be an animal. And you… you are an animal that used to be a man. And still are—though only when the earth has turned her back on the sun. Curious, don’t you think?”

Fox’s stomach knotted. The man knew more than he was letting on.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice low.

The man didn’t answer at first. He looked past Fox, toward the trees, as if something far away was calling to him—or remembering him.

After a long moment, he said, “I lost my witch too.”

Fox blinked. The shift caught him off guard.

“Only difference is… when I lost her, she set me free. Turned me into this.”

His eyes stayed on the trees, distant and lit with something like reverence.

“And now I watch for others like me. Like us.”

A familiar, then, Fox thought. Or something that had once been.

When the man turned back, his eyes were sharper. Focused.

“But you,” he said, “you’re different.”

Fox didn’t flinch. “You’ve been called many things… is one of them pedantic?”

That earned brittle, sharp-edged laughter.

“No,” the man said. “I’ve been called Abomination. Spirit. Devil. The Flayer. The Skinner.”

His voice dropped lower—more intimate.

“But no one knows my real name.”

He removed his hat. His scalp was pale, smooth, gleaming faintly in the dark.

Then he gestured—to the raven, the moth now perched on his shoulder, and the dark viper coiled around his wrist like a living bracelet.

“They’re familiars too. But freed.”

Fox stared, the words catching like thorns.

Finally, quieter now: “You’re not here to kill me?”

The man smiled.

“Son,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”

Chapter 27

The door creaked open under his hand, but only just. The wood had swelled from weather and neglect. Hinges groaned.The air inside was still, carrying the faint scent of old ash, dried herbs, and the quiet mustiness of a place left undisturbed.

The man stepped inside.

Dust motes stirred in the weak light that filtered through the shutters. The hearth was cold, choked with old ash and half-burned wood. A copper kettle sat at the edge of the stones, its spout blackened, the handle wrapped in fraying cloth. Cobwebs stitched the corners of the rafters.

He walked slowly through the cottage, cloak brushing against a rough-hewn table that bore the faint grooves of years of use—knife marks, candle wax, small burns. The kind of marks a life left behind.

There was a straw mattress in the corner, sunken and rumpled, its surface flattened by more than one occupant. A handmade quilt lay atop it, faded from sunlight, one edge trailing on the floor. Someone had stitched vines along the hem—clumsy, uneven, but patient work. A girl’s hand, maybe. Or an old woman’s.

The windowsill held a tin cup with the brittle remains of wildflowers long dead. Their stems had curled like claws. Dust lay thick across the glass, interrupted only by the delicate footprints of a small bird that must have flown in and out.

He reached out and touched the sill with one gloved finger. Then looked at the smear of grime left behind.

He wiped it off on the inside of his cloak with a faint expression of distaste.

The locals had told him how the old woman had died months ago. Quietly, they said, almost with relief. No one was quite sure how—some said it was her heart, others whispered about a snakebite, and one old woman claimed she'd simply wandered into the woods one night and never came back.

And the girl—her "daughter"—had vanished soon after. Packed up her things and left without a word.

“Not that we were surprised,” one of them had added, leaning too close, breath sour with ale. “Strange girl, that one. Always reading. Disappearing for hours. Came back with blood on her boots once, and no rabbit to show for it.”

Another—one of the baker’s sons, if he remembered right—had chuckled as if he didn’t quite believe his own words. “They said she was a witch. Accused her of it, even. Can you imagine? Dana.” And then, after a beat, almost thoughtfully: “Still. Would explain a few things.”

He had smiled with them. Smiled and nodded, even laughed, playing his part. Let them feel clever. Let them feel brave.

But behind the smile, something dark had curled beneath his ribs.

Fools. Every last one of them. They had probably run her out of town. 

They would tear her down if they could— if they believed the rumors enough. If they had even the faintest taste of real fear.

But what they wanted—what they really wanted—was her power.

Power they could never earn.

Power they would never understand.

And yet they sneered and whispered and dreamt of being more than they were. These small, mud-stained creatures. These men and women who wouldn’t know a true spell if it scorched the roof off their thatched hovels.

He had walked away before he did something... memorable.

Still. The rumors had their uses. If the gossip had begun, that meant Dana’s magic had begun to show—just barely, just enough to unsettle people. She might be blooming after all, and the Witch of Light was either unaware… or too weak to act.

He stepped farther into the cottage, letting his hand drift lightly across the edge of the table. There was nothing active here. No wards. No defenses. Just the remnants of careful, ordinary living.

And under it all, something else. Something deeper. Faint, like an echo.

The girl.

Magic.

Not fully bloomed, but seeded. A potential half-stirred. She hadn’t come into it here, but she had been on the cusp of it. If he’d arrived sooner—just a month, a week, even a day—he might have crushed the spark before it caught flame.

Too late now.

He stepped back into the center of the room, turning a slow circle. The Witch of Light had hidden her daughter well. Clever, for a woman so often ruled by her own sentiment. She’d known what he would do if he found the child.

As he had tried once already.

But he’d failed.

And now his own blood was gone. A daughter. A son. Torn from him by that woman’s magic, her defiance, her belief in the prophecy—that foolish, fatal belief that the world would break not from his line, but hers.

She’d sacrificed his children to protect her own.

So be it.

Now her child would die.

The silence pressed close around him. The hearth didn’t so much as sigh. The wind didn’t touch the shutters. Even the dust seemed to hold its breath.

He turned toward the door.

There was nothing more to learn here.

The floor creaked under his boots as he stepped outside.

A young man stood half-concealed behind a hawthorn tree near the lane, one hand braced on the trunk. Watching. Not with the caution of a scout, but the skittish posture of someone trying to look braver than he felt.

The man’s black stallion snorted and stamped its feet, pawing at the earth with disdain.

“Go on then,” the man said dryly. “I can see you.”

The boy started, then straightened. Stepped out from behind the tree and into the clearing with squared shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

The man didn’t answer. Not immediately. He let the boy squirm under his gaze for a few heartbeats before arching a brow.

“Are you a relative of Old Mildred’s?” the boy asked.

The man almost smiled. Old Mildred. Was that what they’d called her? A common farmwoman with a common name. He still couldn’t decide if it was brilliant or disgraceful, that the Witch of Light had hidden her daughter with such a creature. The woman had possessed no gift, no spine, no particular wisdom. Just a small life. A good garden. And apparently, enough trust to be given a child.

“Yes,” he said, smooth as poured oil. “I’m looking for my niece. The young woman who lived here with Mildred.”

“Dana?”

“Mm,” he said. “Have you seen her?”

The boy hesitated. Swallowed. “She left.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t know where.”

“I didn’t ask,” the man murmured, the barest hint of amusement in his tone. “But thank you.”

The boy flushed. “Sorry. Just—”

“What’s your name, son?”

“…Alexander.”

“And how do you know Dana, Alexander?”

There was a pause. The man watched it with mild interest. A little too long, a little too stiff. His guess was correct: guilt for bullying the girl. Or longing. Maybe both.

“She was… my friend.”

The man gave a soft noise, part hum, part breath. “Of course.”

He looked back toward the empty house, as if considering it anew. Then turned to Alexander with a mild expression.

“Well,” he said, “your friend has come into some money. I’d very much like to find her. An inheritance, you see. Quite substantial. May make her the richest woman in the village.”

There it was—the flicker in the boy’s eyes. That greedy little spark.

“She can’t have gone far,” Alexander volunteered, suddenly eager to help.

“Is that right?” the man said softly.

Gods, but the boy was a gift.

“Do you think you could find her for me?”

Alexander hesitated. Looked over his shoulder, toward the road. There was likely a farm there. Hard work. Harder wages. Someone else growing fat on his effort.

“I’m sure you’re an important young man,” the stranger said, “and your work would miss you. And you’d miss your wages. But I’d pay you. Handsomely. And I imagine Dana would be… grateful. She might even pay you herself. Might even kiss you, when she hears the news.”

That landed. The boy flushed red to the ears.

“I can do that,” he said quickly.

“Very good.”

The man stepped closer and reached into the folds of his cloak. When he withdrew his hand, a stone sat on his palm—round, pale, and smooth as riverglass. 

“My calling card, if you will,” the man said, holding it out. “You take it to any sheriff or constable in the northern territories, and they’ll know how to find me.”

The boy hesitated before taking it. His fingers closed around the stone slowly, almost reluctantly. But he didn’t speak.

“You find Dana. Give that to them. I’ll come. With your reward.”

A beat. Then:

“And perhaps… you’ll be waiting with a new wife, too. Eh?” He winked.

The boy flushed—neck, ears, face—turning the color of a ripe plum. The man could see the hunger curling into him now, layered over the greed. He knew what the boy had seen in Dana. Knew, too, that the girl had likely never looked at him twice.

But fools like this always thought they might get lucky in the end.

“Yes, sir!” Alexander said, clutching the stone tightly to his chest. He turned as if to go—then hesitated.

“Sir?” he asked, voice a little too casual. “If I’m to find her… I wonder if you might spare a few coins. For travel.”

The man tilted his head.

Alexander rushed on, swallowing hard. “I—I’m not a man of means. If I’m to go beyond the village, I’ll need coin. For food. For horses. Just… to get there faster.”

The Dark Mage stared at him for a long moment, long enough for the boy to squirm.

Then, with a faint sigh of exaggerated patience, he reached into his cloak once more and produced a small pouch.

“Of course,” he said, handing it over. “A token of my faith in you. Let’s hope it’s not misplaced.”

Alexander nodded quickly, the pouch vanishing into his coat like a magician’s prize. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

No. The man was quite sure he would.

But not before serving his purpose.

He watched Alexander jog off down the road, half-running already toward whatever fantasy he’d constructed in his head—one where Dana was grateful, forgiving, wealthy. One where she’d look at him the way he’d always wanted her to. One where she might, gods help her, even kiss him.

The man turned back to his stallion and swung into the saddle with a single smooth motion.

Let the boy chase the dream.

The Dark Mage had other means of finding her.

And when he did—there would be no inheritance. No kiss. No wife.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pipe, lighting it with a flare of magic. Smoke curled up around his head and drifted off on the breeze.

He would find the girl.

And end her.

And her line.

Notes:

This is probably the last of regular, daily updates. But I will have a couple new chapters this week. After that they will come steadily but more slowly. Thank you so much for comments. They really do keep the creative fires burning!

Chapter 28

Notes:

There will be one more update this week. Then--hopefully--a couple more next week. Thank you again for all your continued comments!

The fire had burned down to ash.

Dana stirred beneath her damp cloak, every joint stiff, every limb heavy. Her side throbbed where she’d slammed into the rocks. She felt brittle, like if she moved too quickly she might shatter. Her breath fogged in the cold air, sharp and damp, and her skin prickled with the ache of the chill that hadn’t quite left her bones. But it was bearable. Survivable. The worst of the night had passed. For now.

The forest was quiet in the gray hush before dawn, and she thought about how Fox would still be in the form of a man. How if he'd been with her, he'd be wrapped around her now, warm and steady and safe.

Fog clung low to the roots and brambles, a slow-drifting ghost that swirled around her ankles. She sat up with a wince, lifting her shirt from where it hung on a branch, dry but stiff with the remains of river water. Her fingers were clumsy with cold, but she forced them to work, re-lacing her bodice with slow, deliberate care. The smell of smoke clung to everything.

Bite lay where she’d left it, the runes on its surface faintly glimmering in the pallid light.

North.

Her fingers traced the rune again. It still didn’t feel like letters—just harsh, jagged markings, etched deep into the steel. But her mind translated anyway. She didn’t understand how she knew. She just did. As if the blade itself was speaking to her.

She packed her things carefully, folding each item with shaking hands and tucking them back into her satchel. Every movement scraped at the soreness in her limbs. She felt hollowed out, like something had been poured out of her and replaced with silence. But deep beneath that quiet, something had settled. A grim, steady resolve.

She was going north. Whether she understood the path or not.

The sun rose pale and cold, casting a wan light through the trees. The world looked bleached and brittle. Dana tightened her cloak and kept walking, one hand always resting lightly on the hilt of her blade.

Hours passed. Her legs ached. Her stomach turned with hunger. She rationed a strip of dried meat and sipped from her water skin, willing herself to keep moving. Each step was an argument with her own body. But she walked on.

By midmorning, the woods began to thin. The trees grew farther apart, their limbs wind-stripped and bare. The ground beneath her boots turned from loamy forest floor to gravel. She slowed.

A road cut through the woods like a scar—straight, hard-packed, unmistakably man-made.

Dana crouched low near the edge, instincts thrumming.

The road meant people. Trade. Villages. Possibly danger.

In the first village she’d visited, she’d done nothing but sit down to eat—and that had nearly gotten her killed. One man’s bruised ego and a room full of silence had turned dangerous fast. Would another place be any different?

Still. She couldn’t hide in the woods forever.

The road stretched north. She needed food. Shelter. Answers.

She waited for a break in the wind and darted across, tucking herself back into the cover of trees on the other side. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She paused to catch her breath and checked her satchel.

Her vision blurred from exhaustion, and at first, she thought she’d imagined it.

A shimmer of silver-blue light danced along Bite’s edge—not the rune, but the steel itself.

Magic, she thought. Mine.

Her hand hovered above the blade. The air around it felt faintly warm, charged. When she touched it—just lightly—something stirred behind her eyes.

A flicker.

A clearing, flooded in moonlight.

The soft rustle of wings.

A breath on her neck.

She gasped and jerked her hand away. Her heart thundered in her chest. The vision gone, but not forgotten.

She looked up sharply. The sky above had dimmed—or maybe it was the trees. Or maybe it was just that feeling again. That sense of being watched.

She turned, hand on Bite’s hilt. Nothing moved. But the air felt aware.

Keep moving, she told herself.

She followed the road from a careful distance, the forest growing sparser as she walked. Not far off, a stream curved through the brush. She dropped to her knees beside it, cupped cold water into her mouth, and refilled her skin.

Her fingers trembled—not just from cold, but something more.

That flicker of power. That glimpse. The way the blade had responded.

Her magic was waking. It was odd to think it had always been inside of her, poised and waiting until she was ready to use it. At least that’s what Fox had said. But was she ready? She’d seen too much not to believe in the magic itself, but she wasn’t sure if she believed in herself. Not without Fox beside her. 

To guide her. Protect her. Maybe even love her. 

She shook the thought away. 

By early afternoon, the woods gave way to low fields and hedge-lined paths. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of soil and woodsmoke.

Birds rustled in the brambles. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.

Dana crouched low behind a hedge as a farmer rolled past in a rickety cart. She didn’t move until he was long gone.

When she rose, her hand brushed the blade again.

North, the rune pulsed.

She squared her shoulders. Pushed on.

Then she saw it.

A shape slumped near the path’s edge.

Red fur, dark muzzle. Still.

She stopped walking.

A fox.

Dead.

Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment everything went still.

Then she looked more closely. 

It wasn’t him, she had to tell herself. It was smaller than Fox, with a star-shaped patch of white on its chest. Still, the shock of seeing it—the shock of thinking for a moment that it had been him, set her insides to trembling viscera. 

The fox had been caught in a noose-trap, the twisted cord biting deep into its leg. Someone had staked it along a rabbit path, the kind of simple trap meant to cull small game. But this fox wasn’t small enough—or lucky enough—to escape.

Dana dropped to her knees. Her breath stuttered. Her stomach turned.

She didn’t say a word. 

Her hands shook as she dismantled the trap. Then she dug a shallow grave with a rock, her fingers scraped raw. When it was done, she laid the fox gently in the earth and covered it with soil. She found a crooked branch to mark it.

When she stood again, she could barely feel her legs. Not just fatigue.

Fear.

Something in her chest wouldn’t unclench.

She turned her back on the little grave.

And didn’t look back.

She just kept walking.

*** 

Far to the north, beyond the mountains and past the veil that marked the edge of their world, the Witch of Light sat with her eyes closed, listening.

The forest had brought her whispers.

A girl, flame-haired and stubborn, walking alone. A blade at her hip that carried the scent of old magic. Power spilling from her like water from a cracked cup—unsteady, untrained, leaking out of the young woman in a slow seep.

But there was no fox.

No soft tread beside the girl. No familiar keeping pace in the shadows. That gave the Witch pause—not because the bond was broken, but because it wasn’t. She could feel its thread, taut and true, still humming with shared purpose. And yet, the girl walked alone.

Still, she was coming. Northbound, determined.

The witch opened her eyes.

Her daughter was coming home.

Chapter 29

Notes:

This now has a soundtrack which is always a good sign.

Mermaid by H. Scott Salinas & Francois-Paul Aiche
Cerulean by Mark Petrie
Empire of Angels by Thomas Bergersen
Geronimo by Sheppard

Updates will be coming slower for a bit here.

The forest had quieted as morning neared. A low, clinging damp purled up from the nearby river, and the midnight sounds of the forest had given way to silence so complete it made Fox’s ears ring. His back was braced against a tree root, his leg stretched out before him, swelling beneath the torn hem of his leggings.

Pain dulled his senses, but not enough to ignore the presence of the others.

The raven was perched on a twisted branch just above his head. The viper coiled herself along a stretch of rock that jutted from the ground like a broken tooth. And the moth, small and flitting, had settled on Fox’s shoulder.

"My leg," he said finally, teeth gritted. "My ankle. I think it’s broken."

The Overseer’s brow creased and he looked down.

"Heal it," said the viper, as if it were as simple a matter as pulling on one’s cloak.

Fox just looked at the snake, puzzled.

"He doesn’t have his own magic?" asked the raven, voice clipped, curious.

"Odd," hissed the viper, winding her way toward Fox through the scattered duff.

"Perhaps he only has it in his true form—his animal form," the moth suggested, wings twitching.

"Why do you speak as if I’m not here?" Fox snapped.

"So he does have some magic after all, " mused the raven. “He  can hear us.”

"Yes, yes, it’s all very curious," said the Overseer—aloud now, for Fox’s benefit, he assumed. "And I don’t think his animal form is his true one."

Fox shifted, trying not to wince as the pain flared up his leg. "It’s mine," he said. "Both are."

The raven cocked its head. "Strange. Usually, the soul settles."

"Or tears," murmured the viper.

The moth’s wings glimmered faintly in the moonlight. "Maybe it hasn’t decided yet."

Fox’s gaze flicked from one to the next. He wasn’t used to being the smallest presence in a space. Certainly not the most powerless. But he felt that now—keenly.

"What do they call you?" the moth asked from his shoulder.

"Fox," he said, feeling suddenly foolish.

"A fine name, " said the moth. " It says who you are. I like that. You may call me Moth."

Fox gave a wary nod. The moth’s voice was small but steady—neither male nor female, like the creature itself, and entirely unfazed by the others. It fluttered to perch once more on the odd man’s hat, its delicate wings pulsing faintly in the gloom.

"What do I call you, if I’m not allowed to know your name?" Fox asked the man. 

"It’s not allowing, exactly," the man said. "They call me the Overseer." He nodded toward the other familiars.

"To your face?"

The man laughed.

Fox didn’t laugh with him. The trees were too still. The clearing was too quiet. And the low ache in his ankle had become a searing throb that threatened to buckle his entire leg. The cold was seeping deeper into him, crawling inward from his soaked clothes and the ache in his bones. He was tired. He was hurt. And the way they all looked at him—as if he were something unfinished—made his skin crawl.

He wanted Dana.

The thought hit him hard, immediate and raw. Not just because he missed her. But because whatever power he had left—whatever spark remained—was bound up in her.

He needed to get to her. Before the Overseer changed his mind about helping him. Before the yearning swallowed him whole.

"Can you help or not?" he asked.

The Overseer turned his head slightly. "I can’t heal you," he said. "But I can carry you somewhere safe. Somewhere you can begin to remember."

Fox’s fingers curled into the dirt. "Remember?"

He wanted to remember, didn't he? Who he was. Where he came from. 

The man didn’t answer. The moth only fluttered its wings. The raven cawed softly. The viper slid back into the shadows.

And Fox, injured and cornered and furious, gave a single, bitter laugh.

"Of course," he muttered. "Riddles again."

The Overseer crouched beside him. "Not riddles," he said. "Truths. You’re just not ready to hear them yet."

Fox didn’t trust him. But he didn’t have much choice.

So when the man reached for him, Fox let him help him up.

The world swayed as he was lifted, and somewhere behind him, the raven gave a low, rattling croak.

"Let’s hope he’s who you think he is," she said.

Chapter 30

Notes:

Thank you to those of you for sticking with me, and for my human sounding boards! Bless you guys!

Dana stayed beyond the village, though she had enough coin to afford a night under a roof. There was no proper inn, but she’d seen a tavern and an apothecary shop, along with a few lean market stalls, mostly selling root vegetables, cured meat, and the kind of rough-woven garments worn by farmers and tradesmen. She’d gone in—hood drawn, eyes low—and bought what she needed: food, another pair of leggings, a coil of twine, a bone needle and a length of strong thread. 

But when the sun began to sink behind the hills, she turned her back on the road.

Something in her resisted the idea of sleeping among strangers.

A half-collapsed farmstead lay not far beyond the edge of the village. The barn had burned long ago, but three of its stone walls still stood, sturdy and tall, enclosing a patch of earth dry enough for sleep and hidden enough for a fire that couldn’t be seen. Dana tucked herself into a corner and let the heat of the flames leech the damp from her skin. Her body was still sore. Her eyelids dragged. She lay back, one hand resting on the hilt of Bite, and let herself drift.

She dreamed.

It wasn’t like the others—not full of light or fire or fragments of memory. This dream was quiet. Cold. And wrong.

Fox was hurt.

She couldn’t see where. Couldn’t see how. But the knowledge struck her like a stone. There was pain in it—his pain—and fear.

She woke with a gasp. The fire had burned low to coals, and morning was just beginning to gray the sky. Her breath fanned white in the air. The chill clung to her, but she barely noticed. Her pulse thundered.

She sat up slowly, hand still on her blade, and reached—not just with thought or worry, but with intent. Her eyes closed.

And she felt it.

Barely skimming his mind, like fingers brushing through the tops of wheat stalks. A soft ripple of sensation. Distant, but real. Fox was still alive. And he wasn’t alone.

She didn’t panic. Panic wouldn’t help him.

Instead, she drew a deeper breath and pressed gently against the thread between them, willing her thoughts to travel farther. To speak. But something resisted. The distance between them pulled like a tide, washing her attempts back before they could land.

He was too far away. Her magic wasn’t strong enough.

She opened her eyes and let the breath go, slow and steady.

She couldn’t reach him—not yet. And she couldn’t help him from here. But she could prepare. She could try to learn something that might.

Dana shifted toward her satchel, unbuckled the flap, and drew out the small book she kept wrapped in oilcloth. It was a practical thing, filled with hand-drawn plants and notes in an old, cramped script. She hadn’t studied it as closely as she’d meant to. But perhaps there was something in it that might help Fox when she finally found him. Something that could help him heal. 

She turned the pages slowly. Yarrow. Comfrey. Willow bark. Familiar names, familiar uses. Poultices and teas. Remedies for pain and swelling. 

What she needed was more than herbs. Something witch-born. A true spellbook. Were witches meant to write their own? How did they begin? If only she knew more about what she was and where she’d come from. If only she had someone to teach her. 

She longed for a family. Longed as any orphan would. Old Mildred had loved her and done right by her, but she knew, deep down, that she’d come from other people–probably magical people, and oh, how she wanted to be among them. 

She kept flipping. And then stopped.

There, nestled among the old drawings, was a page she didn’t remember.

At the top, in curling black script, were the words:

A Spell for the Bonded.

Her breath caught. She turned the page.

A Spell to Heal Your Familiar.

The letters shimmered faintly, ink curling and alive. She reached out and touched them. A quiet hum passed through her fingers.

Fox’s voice came back to her, soft and certain:

Sometimes magic comes from need.

She stared down at the page.

Could it be that simple?

She closed her eyes.

I need a horse, she thought. A full bag of coin. I need Fox beside me—now.

She opened her eyes.

No horse. No coin. No Fox.

But the spell remained, waiting.

***

Rough rope bit into his wrists.

His shoulders ached from how they were pulled behind him, bound tight. His knees pressed hard against stone—he must have been kneeling—but everything around him was too dark to see. His head throbbed. His ribs screamed. Someone had thrown him, hard, into a wall.

He remembered that part.

Then the chanting started.

Low. Rhythmic. Measured. Words that didn’t belong to any language he knew—but his bones knew them. His blood knew them. And whatever was inside him—whatever made him—knew enough to be afraid.

He growled, but the sound was choked.

The chanting grew louder. Sharper. The words were meant to tear. And they did.

He felt something slip. Like teeth loosening in a jaw, or the catch of a trap springing open inside his chest. The world tilted. Magic slammed into him, thick and cold, like oil poured into his lungs.

His thoughts scattered.

He thrashed, but the ropes held. He was gagged now—wasn’t he? Or maybe he just couldn’t make a sound. His mouth was open, but nothing came out.

Pain bloomed.

Pain in his leg. In his back. Behind his eyes.

Then—

A scream.

It rang out like thunder crashing through the dark. A woman’s voice. 

"Nooooo!"

The chanting never faltered, but the spell stuttered until something cracked—inside the magic. It broke open like a sheet of ice beneath his feet, splintering into a thousand jagged shards. The world flashed white—

—then twisted—

—and went black.

Fox awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like sweat—his limbs still twitching as if the ropes were real, his skin buzzing from where the spell had torn through him.

Beside him, the Overseer sat bolt upright, hand gripping the gnarled wood of his staff, breath tight in his chest.

They didn’t speak.

For a moment, it was as if they had both emerged from the same darkness.

Then everything softened—just slightly. The dream ebbed away, leaving behind only pain. Fox’s ankle flared with it the moment he moved. It was definitely broken. Every shift sent fire lancing up his leg. He clenched his jaw against the sound that threatened to rise in his throat.

And then the light changed.

The first thread of sunlight cut across the forest floor. Cold gold. Pale fire.

Fox stilled.

It came over him like a tide.

His body lurched. It shrank and shifted, his bones cracking as fur bloomed across his skin like frost up a windowpane. 

He let out a low, guttural noise—half snarl, half groan—and when it was done, he stood in the leaves on three legs, panting, trembling, his right hind leg hanging limp behind him.

The familiars drew closer in a hushed, watchful circle.

The Overseer stepped forward and knelt before him.

He studied Fox’s shape—ragged, off-balance, still fierce despite the injury.

Then he reached out and rested a hand lightly on Fox’s head, just behind the ears.

“Only your witch can heal you now.”

Fox looked up, eyes bright with pain and something deeper—something quietly resolute.

“You are bound to her,” the Overseer said. “And so is your fate.”

Chapter 31

Dana sat cross-legged in the ruined farmstead, the book open in her lap. Morning light filtered over the tumbledown walls, turning the worn pages gold. Her breath clouded in the cool air. Though she had wrapped herself in her cloak, the chill still clung to her limbs.

She turned to the page again.

A Spell to Heal Your Familiar.

The letters shimmered faintly, as though they were carved from something living. Beneath them, the instructions were written clearly—ingredients, actions, incantation. Simple. Straightforward.

But it wasn’t, was it? She scanned the list of herbs, noting that they needed to be dried. She’d have to hope the apothecary in town carried them. Her gaze lingered on the final instructions: a drop of your blood. The spoken words.

She frowned. Do I say the words as I drop the blood in? Or after? The spell book didn’t explain. It wasn’t a teacher—it didn’t offer guidance or reassurance. It simply showed her what could be done. The rest was up to her.

With a sigh, she closed the book and slid it into her satchel. She needed the herbs.

***

The apothecary shop sat at the edge of the village, tucked behind the tavern like an afterthought. Its faded sign swung on rusted hooks, creaking softly in a breeze that followed her through the door. The scent that wafted upon her was unmistakable—clove and thyme, sage and lavender, dried orange peel and bitter bark. The fragrance curled around her, so bright and sharp she wanted to sneeze.

Inside, the shop was narrow and dim, lit by a single high window and the glow of banked coals in the hearth. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with glass bottles and clay jars, paper-wrapped bundles, and little sachets tied with twine. Bundles of herbs hung from cords strung across the upper beams, their crisp, brittle leaves hanging silent and still. The air shimmered faintly with suspended dust motes and the scent of a dozen conflicting remedies.

Behind the worn wooden counter, an older man looked up from sorting dried roots into a brass scale. His face was lined but not unkind, framed by graying hair tied at the nape. His eyes, rheumy as a silty puddle, followed her as she stepped inside, as she rove her gaze over the wondrous space. She had never seen anything like it.

"Help you?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Dana had to pull her attention forward. She’d memorized the ingredients from the spell book, and spoke them aloud as if conjuring them from the air herself. 

He listened, squinting at her careful list. "Unusual blend. Are you a healer?"

She hesitated. Her mouth went dry. "Something like that."

He looked up, intrigued. "You’re not from here."

"Just passing through."

"Mm. Most who pass through only want willow bark and bitters. You’ve got half a hedgewitch’s pantry here."

Dana gave a small, tight smile. "It’s for someone else. He’s—injured."

The man nodded slowly, eyes scanning her face with more interest than suspicion. "They’ll need to be dried, I take it?"

"Yes. And ground, if that’s possible. I don’t have a mortar and pestle."

"I can do that. Do you have a vessel for mixing?”

She hadn’t considered this. She hadn’t considered a lot.

He gave her a sympathetic look.

"There’s a woodcarver down the lane," he said. "You can get something from him."

She nodded and the man set to work. She watched him move through the rows of jars with methodical ease, selecting each herb, measuring and placing them into a shallow clay dish. When everything had been weighed and dried, he wrapped the components in waxed parchment and tied them with twine. She brought her satchel up to the counter and he dropped them into it for her with a smile. 

***

Dana found a bowl—a small thing, well-sanded and rubbed with tallow—at the woodworkers stall. It fit neatly into the palms of her hands. She paid for it, shoved it into her satchel next to the herbs and hurried back to the ruins of the old barn, looking behind her to see if she’d been followed. There wasn’t a soul wandering about. 

The wind had picked up. She retrieved the bow and set it down with care, then unwrapped her parcels, and placed the spell book beside them. They looked paltry sitting there on the weedy floor of the ruined barn. There was nothing magical about them. What sat before her was simple and homey. Dull. Ordinary.

How was she meant do this? she wondered. Did you need an altar? Were candles to be lit? 

She imagined an old crone in a hovel with a dank mushroom cap for a roof, a steaming cauldron, a bubbling green mass. Noxious fumes, incantations in a foreign tongue.

She began to question what she was even doing. She felt foolish. Clumsy as a newborn fawn. She wasn’t a witch. She was an orphan, a goat’s milkmaid, a young woman with no family and no home. 

The thick page of the open spell book fluttered in the breeze that swirled through the crumbling walls. The script on the page before her faded for a moment, reverting back to a hand drawn picture of nightshade. 

She froze, her stomach dropping low in her belly. An image flashed before her eyes of Fox lying prone on a clump of cold earth, a wizened man with a staff in one hand, a raven perched on his shoulder. A black viper was wending its way toward Fox’s leg–the same leg he clutched, white-knuckled, in pain. 

If she failed him, if she failed at this, she could lose him. The only person she had left in the world. The only person she—

She closed her eyes, swallowed, took a deep, steadying breath. When she opened them, the spell shimmered back on the page, though the ink looked as though it had faded. 

It was time to begin. Before it was too late. 

She took a handful of healing herbs— yarrow , comfrey , mallow root —and crushed them together with her fingers, murmuring what she knew of their uses. She remembered what Mildred taught her: what soothes pain, what knits bone. The spell at least made sense from an alchemical standpoint.

She scattered them in the bowl, raised her fingers to her nose and inhaled the sharp scent, letting the smell ground her. Then she pulled a strand of Fox’s hair–wiry and short–from the wool blanket he’d liberated from the monastery. Next, she pricked her fingertip with the tip of Bite’s blade and let a single drop of blood fall onto the crushed herbs.

Licking her lips, she read the incantation:

From root to vein, from sky to stone,
By blood and bond, not flesh alone,
Mend what’s torn, restore what’s true,
My will, my heart—I give to you.

The first time, the herbs scattered on a gust of wind, the piece of Fox’s hair threatening to lift away as well. The words, whispered, tumbled out of her mouth in a litany, as if she were a nervous priest giving his first sermon, rattling it off without breath. She pricked her finger and added the drop of blood, but felt nothing.

And nothing was what happened. 

She sighed, and tried again.

This time, her voice faltered midway through the incantation. Her thoughts wandered. Her finger stung from being pricked again.

A third time. Still no warmth. No shift. No sense that anything was reaching across the bond between her and Fox. Her frustration flared. Her eyes burned.

It won’t work if you don’t believe.

The words were not hers. Not even written in the book—yet she felt them, as though the book itself had whispered.

She stilled.

Fox. She thought of his face, drawn in pain. His body curled somewhere far away, fighting. She thought of the way he’d looked at her from across a fire, across a pillow, across the rushing river as it pulled him away. She thought of the way he fought to stay at her side. The way she knew—just knew—that he was still holding on.

Dana closed her eyes. She was almost out of the herbs she’d bought from the apothecary, her finger burned, reticent to yield more of her lifesblood. If she was going to succeed, if she was going to heal him, she had one last chance. And she needed to do it now. 

She gathered the last of the herbs. 

One last drop of blood. Heard Fox’s voice: “Some truths don’t need memory. They come through the blood.” Heat flared in her chest. The bowl was steady in her hands. She muttered the words—not just speaking them, but meaning them.

Her fingertips tingled and a flash of something zipped through her veins. Light—not from the sun, but from within—rose behind her eyes.

The spell took. A blazing zing across the bond, her power flowed from her and through to him, connecting them in a way that she could feel deep in her chest. She could feel it, knew it the way she knew her own heartbeat.

And somewhere far away, Fox would feel it too.

Dana sank back on her heels. The bowl before her was empty. The light within her had faded. But her magic had answered. However briefly.

She sat for a long moment, breath shallow, heart still racing. She felt as though she’d unlocked the door to Paradise and had been allowed a single moment to look through the crack before the door slammed shut. 

She looked down.

Bite lay beside her, its steel catching the afternoon light. The rune etched into the blade still shimmered faintly— North.

Her fingers reached out, brushing the hilt. She turned the blade slowly in her hands, needing to feel the grounding presence of something solid. 

But on the other side, something had changed.

Not carved. Not etched.

Unveiled.

A single word, drawn from the runes and rendered into meaning. 

Look.

Dana exhaled slowly.

Not a direction. A command. 

Look.

Chapter 32

Notes:

Thank you so much to Anna, Becca and Dina for your notes on this chapter! And thank you to those that continue to read and comment!

Fox dozed in short, miserable fits.

The pain in his leg dulled only slightly after the shift. What had once been searing had become a pounding throb of agony that pulsed in his ankle and behind his eyes and stole the clarity from his thoughts. His fox body was lighter, more agile, but no less broken.

The forest was still, hushed in the amber light of late morning.

He lay curled near the base of an ash tree, head on his paws, body drawn tight against the ache. The familiars watched him—raven from above, viper from below, moth from the Overseer’s shoulder—but none of them spoke.

And the Overseer simply waited.

Fox drifted. In and out. Pain made it hard to hold on to anything for long. Once or twice he dreamed—fragments of what might have been memory, voices he couldn’t place.

Then, without warning, something lit beneath his ribs.

It was like a spark catching dry tinder—sharp, bright, and alive.

He jerked upright with a startled yelp, his hind leg spasming as if struck. Heat surged through his body, not fire exactly, but force—an insistent pull, a current that threaded through every nerve, every tendon.

He panted, eyes wide. The sensation rolled through him in waves.

Healing.

Real healing. From somewhere else. From her .

He didn’t know how he knew. But he did. Just as surely as he knew the shape of her voice, the slope of her cheek, the steadiness of her hand in his.

Her magic. Dana’s.

It flowed into him like a tether snapping taut—an invisible cord that strung them together across distance and pain and time. It was not gentle, but it was sure. It shivered through his bones and tugged at the fracture in his leg. He whimpered once, curling tighter, breath coming hard and fast.

The moth stirred, wings trembling. The raven ruffled her feathers.

The Overseer rose slowly to his feet.

The pain flared again—but it flared with purpose. No longer raw or aimless. It was healing pain, the kind that meant something was working. Something was fighting for him.

Fox’s head dropped. He panted hard, tongue lolling. His claws dug into the earth, grounding him against the surge. It passed slowly—like a storm swirling in place—but when it did, the trembling in his limbs eased. The swelling in his leg began to recede. His breaths no longer shuddered.

The Overseer said nothing.

But he watched.

And Fox, feeling the last of the pain fade from his bones, lifted his head to meet the older man's gaze.

The pain wasn’t gone. But it had changed. Less a wound now, more an ache. A pang. 

He shifted his weight experimentally. The leg still smarted, but no longer screamed. Something in it held steady—mended. Weak, but whole.

He straightened, just slightly. Eyes still locked on the Overseer.

“She reached you. Even from this distance.” The man’s voice was low, impressed.

The Overseer stepped closer, one hand brushing the staff, the other at his side. His expression was unreadable.

“She’s found some power, your witch.”

Fox dipped his head. More than the relief that he felt in his ankle, more than the release of pain and fear, he was immensely proud of her. He wanted to throw his arms around her, twirl her through the air. Celebrate the moment. 

Not that he could. Not like this.

Instead, he looked up, holding his breath. The forest held its breath, too. 

He shifted slightly, testing the leg again, but his eyes didn’t leave the Overseer. It would hold. The magic had done what it could.

The man stepped closer. His gaze dropped, and for the first time, he seemed to take notice of the smooth stone tied at Fox’s throat. The Overseer’s eyes lingered on it, unreadable.

“You carry something.”

Fox blinked. His head dipped slightly, and the stone tied around his neck shifted against his fur. 

The Overseer didn’t reach for it. His eyes merely narrowed.

“That was not meant for you,” he said mildly, not choosing to elaborate.

Then he straightened.

“You have a decision to make.”

Fox looked up sharply.

The Overseer met his gaze—and suddenly, something shifted. A thread tugged between them, silent but sure, and he heard the older man in his mind.

“Do you wish to be reunited with your witch?”

The Overseer asked it as if it were a choice, not a soul-deep imperative.

“I do,” he answered. 

The Overseer nodded, unsurprised. 

“I told you that I’m a familiar, like you. But freed.”

“You did, but I don’t understand how that—”

“There are many of us, Fox” he explained. “Familiars who have slipped their bonds. Some by force. Some by consent. Some—” his eyes softened, “by grief.”

Fox stayed silent.

“I find them,” the Overseer continued, “and I ask them what they want. Do they wish to live in service to magic? Do they wish to continue their path? Many enjoy the power that comes from their bond. Many choose the life they lead. But some,” he turned and looked briefly at his companions, “believe service without consent is corruption.”

He stepped closer.

“If you wish to be parted from her, I can do it. I can break the tether.”

Fox flinched. “You’re offering me freedom.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I do not.” 

“Even if you’re bewitched?”

Something inside him stilled. Rough acknowledgement. 

Of course he was bewitched. 

That strange, inevitable pull. The way the sun ruled his form. The ache at dawn and dusk. No man—no creature—shifted like that unless something had been done to him.

But that wasn’t what the Overseer meant. Not entirely. 

“ Am I bewitched?” he asked. 

“I think you know.”

“I think you know more.”

“I do.”

“But you won’t tell me.”

The Overseer nodded. “There’s a time for telling. But it’s not now.”

Fox’s thoughts twisted. The thought that he was tied to her against his will was a thought he’d had to contend with from the moment he saw her standing on the stoop of her cottage, when her blood called to him. Unnaturally. 

“Did Dana bewitch me?”

He didn’t think she could have. Not Dana. Too earnest. Too raw. Too just-barely-coming-into-power. It would take more than intent to cast the kind of binding that gripped his soul. And she wasn’t that kind of person. Had wanted nothing to do with him when he first told her who he was. What she was. 

“I think you know,” said the Overseer.

And he did.

“My service to her is an act of magic.” It wasn’t a question.

The Overseer looked at him. “Yes.”

The dream he kept having, bound tightly, someone chanting a spell that split him open, a woman screaming No…

Confusion warred with certitude. The bond…the urge to serve, to protect, to guide—those feelings that had been with him from the moment he first saw her—perhaps those were artificial. Or had been. 

But what he felt for her now was more than that. 

Wasn’t it? 

“Do you wish to be free of her?” The Overseer asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Free?

The word struck something deep. 

He wanted freedom from the prison of not knowing his past. From the curse that clawed at his insides each dawn and dusk. But not from her. Never from her.

More than forced duty, more than forced bond, more than the magic he now knew pulsed between them—

He wanted her . 

To be at her side. To touch her skin. To hold her until they blurred at the edges. Until they were not fox and witch, not servant and master—but something else. Something whole.

If this passion was an enchantment, so be it. She had not cursed him. She was all that was good. All that was light

“I do not,” he said, ears forward.

The Overseer exhaled, something between relief and resignation.

“Then let us go find her,” he said. 

Fox pushed himself to his feet, bones stiff but no longer broken. He gave a full-body shake, fur rippling, and lifted his head.

There would be time, later, to ask the questions that burned through him. To untangle the spellwork, the bond, the transformation that ruled his form and tied his fate to hers.

But not now.

Now, only one thing mattered.

Getting back to her.

Chapter 33

Notes:

Huge thanks to Anna and Becca for giving such thoughtful notes and suggestions. This chapter (and the next!) are so much richer for it.

Dana sat in the quiet of the ruined barn, basking in the memory of the power she’d wielded. It felt close now, like a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. Her magic was in reach. If only she knew how to grasp onto it. 

She let her fingers drift toward the blade lying beside her. 

North. The first word she’d ever read on its surface. A direction, yes—but also a promise. A pull in her blood she hadn’t been able to shake since the moment the rune revealed itself.

Fox had felt it, too. The way he had looked toward the horizon, the urgency in his voice. They had known, even then, that north was where the path would lead them. Where hers still did. 

But first—she had to find him.

That ache sat heavy in her chest. She’d done what she could to heal him, but the bond between them was still stretched taut and silent. She didn’t know where he was. Whether he was safe. Whether he was searching, too.

And magic—her own strange, radiant power—was the only tool she had to reach him.

She looked down at the spellbook in her lap, its pages still and waiting. If she could learn more, if she could deepen the connection inside her, maybe then she’d find him. Maybe then, together, they could follow the blade’s pull and see what waited in the north.

Maybe, too, her growing power would unlock more of the blade’s runes—more of the message it carried. She had a feeling it wasn’t finished speaking to her.

That was the path before her.

Learn her power.
Find Fox.
Go north.

And maybe, in the unraveling of those threads, finally learn the truth of who—and what—she was.

But how best to test and discover her power? 

She heard Mildred’s voice in her head. 

“Even the finest seeds won’t grow if you don’t put your hands in the dirt, girl.”

She smiled. There was nothing for it but to practice. And no time like the present to do it. 

She cupped her hands and focused, remembering the faint light she’d conjured in the cave. A warmth bloomed in her chest and filtered down her arms. She breathed in, trying to find that spark again. For a moment, the light flickered to life in her palm—like a candle’s glow.

Then it winked out.

Dana frowned.

She tried again.

This time it stayed longer—growing brighter as the sky outside the barn shifted to early afternoon. But she could feel herself holding back. Something within her resisted. Not fear or doubt, but something more complicated. Like trying to force a river to flow uphill.

She sighed. 

Perhaps she needed something simpler. Something that would flow through her without resistance.

With a thought of what she needed, she looked down where the spell book waited, remembering how it had filled in spells of necessity, responding to her need. 

She flipped through it. But no pages populated with a simple spell she might pull off in the lee of the old barn’s wall. There were only simple illustrations of local plants, the Spell to Heal Your Familiar, and the spell that sat, fat and waiting, darker than the one for healing: A Spell for the Bonded, borne from yearning.

What did it do?

The text didn’t say. Not directly.

She’d expected instructions, some kind of promise or outcome—but the words only offered ingredients and incantation. Nothing of what it would feel like. Nothing of what it would cost.

Would it help her find Fox? Hear him? Could it let them speak? Or was it subtler than that—something felt, not heard?

Something that might link their hearts… or their pain?

She didn’t know.

Only that it seemed to glow when she looked at it. Only that it had appeared when her longing peaked. That had to mean something.

The ingredients were more elaborate than the healing spell. Some she recognized. Others were unfamiliar.

She reached into her satchel to take stock of what she had left—and froze.

Tucked deep in one corner, beneath the spare leggings and twine, was a small bundle she didn’t remember packing. It was tied in deep green thread, snug and neat. A faint, resinous scent clung to it—sharp and clean.

Frowning, Dana loosened the knot. Inside were dried herbs: nettle, frostbloom, a sprig of ironwort. And something else. 

A loop of rivergrass, dried but still vibrantly green, threaded through with a distinctive, crisscrossed braid. She had seen that braid before—in the basket she’d been left in as a babe, swaddled and set on Mildred’s stoop. The basket she’d looked at longingly throughout her life, wondering where she came from.

Now here it was again.

Her stomach tightened. Slowly, Dana sat down, the bundle in her lap.

This wasn’t just a collection of herbs. It was a message.

For a long time, she simply held the herbs, the plait, turning them over in her hands, the pungent, peppery tang of the dried greenery rubbing off on her fingers. 

She hadn’t asked for these. She hadn’t bought them.

But the bundle was here. In her satchel. And the shopkeeper had packed her things himself that morning.

She rewrapped the bundle carefully. Sat with it in her lap for a long moment.

And then, slowly, stood.

***

The bell above the apothecary door chimed softly. The shop was quieter than before—dimmer, somehow—the worn floorboards beneath her feet muffling her steps.

The shopkeeper glanced up from a mortar and pestle. He did not smile, exactly, but nor did he seem surprised to see her.

She studied him more closely. He was tall, if stooped, and his face was craggy, but kind looking. His hair, once dark, was peppered with gray and his eyebrows sprouted from his forehead like great shaggy caterpillars, growing with a kind of wild, septuagenarian abandon.

“You’re back,” he said.

Dana stepped closer, the bundle tucked beneath her arm. “There was something in my satchel I didn’t buy.”

“Was there?” He set the pestle down and wiped his hands on a cloth. “And what was that?”

She laid the bundle on the counter. And on the top of the bundle, she laid the braided river grass. 

“Did you mean to give these to me?” she asked.

He stepped forward, lifted the braid carefully, examining it before setting it back on the countertop. Then he turned and glanced at the back shelf, a curious look on his face. After a moment, he inclined his head at the wrapped herbs. 

Finally, he answered. “I believed you might find the herbs useful.” 

She pressed her lips together hard, feeling her teeth press into the delicate skin there. 

“And this?” she said, pushing the braided length forward. 

“That,” he said, dropping his head to look at her frankly, “belongs more to you than it does to me.” 

She gripped the strap of her satchel and squeezed it hard, a flash of anger coursing through her. 

“Why,” her voice tightened, “does it feel like everyone knows something about me I don’t?” 

When he didn’t answer her, she nodded toward the packet of herbs and the braided grasses. “Keep them,” she said.

She turned on her heel, jaw tight, and made it halfway to the door before his voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

Dana hesitated.

“I didn’t mean to frustrate you,” he said. ”But that braid—it’s not just a token.” 

She looked at the braid, where it sat on the counter, could feel the ghost of the tight weave of the creel in which she’d been delivered to Mildred’s door. Her anger started to ebb. 

“What is it?”

"Something left behind for you to find," he said. "When you were ready."

"But I didn't come looking for it."

“No,” he said kindly. “I sense it came looking for you.”

Dana sat with that a moment. 

“Why did you put it in my satchel?” she asked. 

The shopkeeper gave his head a rueful shake. “I didn’t. That has been sitting on a shelf behind this counter here for many years now.”

“But how did it—“

He held up a hand. “I have some knowledge of the craft, miss,” he said, “but the workings of the arts that come by blood are far beyond my ken.”

Dana’s skin prickled at his words and she turned to look behind her, half-certain a mob armed with pitchforks would be gathering just outside to run her out of another village. 

She eyed the apothecarian warily, but he stood calmly behind the counter, looking at her with patient expectancy.

“You’re headed north?” he asked kindly.

Dana looked at the bundle again, at the braid coiled atop it like a question mark. She was at another crossroads. Standing again between the elms of the crofter’s cottage as the light set on the world she knew, briefly illuminating one she didn’t. 

“Come,” he said, quieter now. “Perhaps I can help you.” He turned toward the back of the shop

She thought of Fox. Of the untested spell sitting in her book. Of the force that had awakened in her blood that she couldn’t properly harness or control. 

How had she gotten here? A simple, if smart girl, the adopted daughter of a goatherd, who had longed for something more but hadn’t bargained that the more coming to her would be quite so much. 

“Alright,” she said, curiosity overcoming hesitation. 

He nodded and she followed him, grabbing the braided grasses and holding the plait loosely in her palm. 

He led her behind the counter, past a hanging curtain of heavy material and sprigs of dried thyme, into a small back room lit only by a pair of candles. The scent here was heavier—beeswax, ash, something sweet and ancient.

Books lined a narrow shelf. Tall tables sat along the edges of the room, cluttered with jars and bowls and spools of twine. 

And in one corner stood a small altar, simple and worn. Atop it sat a spell book, its cover giving off a dull brown shimmer. 

Dana looked around, heart quickening. “This isn’t just an herb shop.”

“No,” he said, turning to her. “Not just.”

“Are you like me?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “I’m but a hedge mage. I can perform small magics. Herb lore. A little more, maybe. But nothing like what runs in your blood.”

A low feeling of excitement ran through her, despite her wariness. “What runs in my blood?” she whispered.

There was a beat of silence and then he smiled at her, reached across to squeeze the hand in which she held the braid, his papery skin warm. “The Light,” he answered. 

Chapter 34

Notes:

Huge thanks once again to Becca and Anna for the beta help with this monster of a chapter!

Dana’s brow furrowed.

“There was someone,” the shopkeeper went on, turning her hand over and opening her fingers gently so that the braid sat atop her palm. “Came through here years ago. Looked like you.”

Her pulse began to thrum. A low heat rose in her chest—not fear, exactly, but something sharper, more electric. Like the air before a summer storm. The room seemed to narrow, the shelves and bottles and bundles of herbs falling away until there was only the braid, only the shopkeeper’s voice.

“ Felt like you,” he said, quieter, his eyes holding hers for a long beat. “She left that in payment.”

Dana looked down at the small braid. Her hands had begun to tremble. 

She ran her fingers over it again, hoping for a zing of magic to show itself or for sudden recognition to hit her. 

None came. 

The shopkeeper looked at her. “Something like that,” he nodded at the plait. “Comes from past the veil.”

A chill rolled over her. “The veil?”

He paused. “Between worlds. Where this one meets that one.” He nodded toward the braid. 

“There are two worlds?” she asked, drawing her hands into fists in order to dig her nails into the skin of her palm. 

He didn’t answer directly. Just gave her a long, thoughtful look. “You can feel it, same as I.” 

And with his words…she could feel it. The lightest pull from the north. A whisper of a name on a quiet breeze. Faint. Delicate. But unmistakably there. 

Dana swallowed. Her pulse beat fast in her throat. She half expected not to feel anything where her nails dug into her skin, that she would wake stiff and cold around the dying coals of a fire, it all having been a dream. It was all too much, too quickly. 

But she released her fists and stared at the eight half-moon dents in the palms of her hands, the sting sitting sharp and red upon her skin.

He paused. 

“Tussuck sedge grows only in the far north. It’s rare to find it down here,” he added, eyes unreadable. “Rarer still to see it woven that way.”

“What does it mean?”

“Depends who wove it,” he said. “But it’s often a sign. A guide left behind. Not for warning—for return. Perhaps it was meant for you.”

Dana closed her hand around it, squeezing tightly. 

So she was being called home . 

She knew it with a suddenness and rightness that reached into every empty place inside her. 

Home. More than an empty cottage with the shadows of happier days sitting in dusty corners, the lonely bleating of goats just outside the door. A place to set her belongings down without having to tote them from place to place. A family that might welcome her. That might understand who and what she was. That might embrace her. That might embrace Fox without fear. That might even be able to help settle his shape into the man she had…she had fallen in love with. 

Her breath rushed out of her in realization. In hope. In the idea of something more and better than a transient life spent always looking over one shoulder. 

She might discover not just a past, but a future as well. With him. 

Home . 

And it would be Fox himself who would help her get there. But she would need more than just him—even more than her wiles and wits. She would need her magic.

“Do you know the name of the woman who left it?” she asked hopefully.

The shopkeeper shook his head, his expression tinged with regret.

“I know only where she came from. Same place as you, I expect. With that hair…” he looked at her plainly. “That power.”

Dana hadn’t expected an answer, but the lack of one still stung.

“My name, however,” he put a hand to his chest and bowed his head towards her. “Is Silas.”

“I am Dana,” she said quietly. For a moment, she gathered herself, then looked up at him. 

“I don’t know where I came from,” she admitted. “And while I know where I’m going, I don’t know what I’ll find when I get there—or even how to begin.”

“If you’re here,” he said gently, “you’ve already begun. And I think you know what you want to do next.”

They were no longer speaking of roads or destinations, but of magic. Her path. And still, she felt no fear. Not of what she might become, nor of the man standing before her—another bearer of the gift, however humbly he described his own talents.

She had lived in fear so long, it felt almost like an unburdening to share the vulnerability she’d carried since Mildred’s passing. Fox had known much of what she felt just by instinct. To say it aloud was like setting down a very heavy yoke.

“I do,” she admitted, the words coming out in a rush. “But I don’t know how. I’ve no one to show me.”

“No,” he said softly. “I imagine you don’t. There aren’t many of us left.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Even those with weak, pale powers, like myself.” His eyes grew distant, somber. “The world beyond the veil is fading. And so are those who still belong to it.”

Dana felt a deep sadness cleave into her heart. The family she’d longed for—perhaps there wasn’t one after all.

“And those of us who remain,” the shopkeeper continued, “especially those of us south of the veil, stay hidden. It isn’t safe otherwise.”

Witch! said villagers she’d known her whole life. Conjurer!

Alexander had been right after all. 

Suddenly a thought occurred to her and she turned and looked around the room. 

“Do you…have a familiar?” she asked. “Who helps you practice?” She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a cat jump up onto the tabletop and gently butt her head against the shopkeeper’s face. But there was no cat, no perch for a crow, no cedar chip bed for a dog; no animals at all that she could see.  

He smiled at her. “I’m not so powerful as all that. It takes a true sorcerer to tie souls together in that way. And someone with sorcerer’s blood to use the connection. I have neither the power nor the inclination to bind another’s soul to myself. My wife is work enough.”

At this he chuckled softly, and she swallowed, pushing down thoughts of Fox. Of what their binding might mean to him. To her. She would address this later. She would keep his existence to herself for now. 

She managed a smile back, a silence settling between them. 

And then the bell above the door gave a gentle ring, altering Silas to the presence of a customer.

He gave her a nod and stepped back out onto the main floor. Dana followed him, the thick curtain falling heavily behind her. 

A woman from the village had entered the shop, eyeing Dana with vague suspicion as she ordered a tonic and then moved away from the shop counter to peruse the shelves.

As the woman drifted off toward the other side of the space, Dana turned back to the shopkeeper. “Can you help me, Silas?” she asked softly.

He met her gaze, his eyes flitting briefly to his customer. “I can try. Come back tomorrow. Earlier is better.”

***

The fire crackled in the center of the ruined barn, its glow flickering off the low stone walls. Dana sat with her knees drawn up, the plait of rivergrass resting on her lap—a question she couldn’t yet answer.

She ran her fingers over it slowly, tracing the braid again and again. The texture was rough in places, softened in others. Familiar. Intimate. She knew this pattern. Had known it for as long as she could remember. The very same knotting woven into the basket that had sat in the corner of Mildred’s cottage her whole life—the one she’d never been able to throw away.

Who had left it at the apothecary shop all those years ago?

It was too much of a coincidence to have been a stranger.

It had to be someone connected to her. Her mother, maybe. Or an aunt. A sister, though the idea felt too strange and close. Whoever she was, she had stood in that same shop. Spoken to Silas. Paid in rivergrass. Left a trail behind.

And that trail had led here.

Dana stared into the fire, her thoughts tumbling over each other, tangling like the herbs drying above Silas’s worktable. She wanted to understand it all—who the woman was, what the braid meant, what The Light truly was. She could still feel the weight of Silas’s hand on hers when he’d said it, the certainty in his voice.

The Light. Not just magic. Something older. Something deeper. Something passed through blood.

And he had spoken of the veil—of another world beyond this one, thinning and fading. A place where people like him, like her, belonged.

And were dying out.

She curled her fingers tighter around the rivergrass.

There was so much she didn’t know. So much she hadn’t even known to wonder about. And yet, the thing she wanted most wasn’t knowledge. Not yet.

It was him.

Fox.

She looked toward the blade resting beside her.

It gleamed faintly in the firelight. She reached for it, as she had so many times before—not to wield it, but simply to feel its weight in her hand. She turned it over, the metal familiar and warm against her palm.

The rune she had come to know first still glowed faintly.

North.

And several runes below it—on the same side of the blade—another shimmer stirred to life.

Seeks.

The letters brightened in a slow pulse, as though waking. Dana’s breath caught.

She turned the blade in her hand to look at the other side. The side that began with Look.

There, etched beneath the earlier runes, one final word blazed to life.

Seek.

A mirrored command. Similar—but not the same. One declarative. One imperative. One part of a message she still didn’t fully understand.

She ran her thumb over the rune. The metal was warm beneath her touch, thrumming faintly like a heartbeat.

Seek.

Not just a direction. A purpose. A call.

It was what she’d been doing all along, wasn’t it? Seeking. 

Fox. Answers. Herself.

She pressed the braid of rivergrass to her chest and closed her eyes.

Tomorrow she would return to Silas. She would learn what she could. She would train her hands, her voice, her magic. She would follow the runes. Follow the pull.

And she would find him.

No matter where he was. No matter what stood in her way.

The blade had spoken again.

And she was listening.

***

The next morning, the windows of the apothecary shop were covered. The door looked shut tight. Dana stood for a moment, uncertain. Then she knocked. On the street behind her, a horse clopped by, its head hung low, its rider giving her an interested look. She pulled her cloak’s hood up to cover more of her face. 

A latch clicked. The door cracked open, and the Silas ushered her in quickly, shutting it fast behind them.

“Come.”

He led her to the back of the shop, again. The tables were cleared off now, a bowl, mortar and pestle set neatly to the side. On the altar, covered in rough hewn burlap, sat a candelabra’s worth of candles, though only a few were lit. The spell book sat in the center of it. 

“I don’t teach often,” he said, getting right to business. “Not many come looking. But I’d like to see what you can do.”

Dana nodded. “I’ve… practiced. A little. I can’t do much. Though I can hold a light. In my hand.”

He tilted his head. “Show me.”

She cupped her hand again. Focused.

The light came slowly, weak and flickering. 

“Connect yourself to the earth,” Silas instructed, moving up beside her and nodding encouragingly. “Not the spell. The magic will come. But you need to ground yourself to what the magic flows from . The earth. The sky. Trees know magic. Grasses and flowers whisper it to the wind. Close your eyes and feel it. You don’t have to wrest it from the ether. It will come to you if you let it. All you need to do is step out of the way.” 

Dana felt something unlock—quiet and astonishing—as if the world had exhaled beneath her feet and filled her lungs with its breath. A hum rose in her bones, subtle but certain, the earth itself reaching up to meet her.

The light in her palm grew steadier. It pulsed once, twice, then held, shining brightly. 

The man watched in quiet awe. “Remarkable,” he said. “And you’ve only just begun.”

Dana nodded, her eyes on the small pulsing glow. “I didn’t know—I don’t know…what I am. Not really. I was raised by a simple farm woman. Left on her doorstep as a babe. She wasn’t magical. But she taught me the herbs. And I’ve always… felt things, I suppose. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You were born from Light. From power,” he said simply. “I see it in you.”

She swallowed. Then, cautiously, “You don’t know the name of the woman who left the braid,” she said. “But do you have any idea who she was? Or where she came from?”

“It was long ago,” he said. “She came from beyond the veil. Far to the north. She had power, too. More trained than you. But she carried sadness with her. Left after a week or so.”

Dana closed her hand on the ball of light and the room dimmed. 

He studied her. “Your family would have taught you—should have taught you—the ways of your magic.”

“I have no family,” she said simply, wondering about the woman who had been here before her and left that braid. Silas looked at her sympathetically and she straightened, pulling her shoulders back. 

She may not have blood family—not right now, but she might. She still might. 

In her mind's eye, she saw a golden eye, a flash of russet fur. 

Soft, warm lips descending toward her own. 

Family or not, she wasn’t alone. 

Silas reached for a small book. “Try something simple. One of mine.”

She took it. The spells were faded, handwritten. No shimmer. But she followed one—the words to encourage a plant to bloom. She whispered it, pressing her palm to a withered sprig of mint in a clay pot.

The leaves shivered. Then freshened. Not fully—but noticeably.

The shopkeeper beamed and flipped a page.

“Try another.”

He set a candle down in front of her, then smiled wryly. “I still use embers most of the time.”

Dana focused. The light in her chest was warmer now. Closer to the surface. She tried to ground herself to the earth and listen to what it had to tell her. She breathed out, blowing gently upon the wick. The candle flared to life.

“Astonishing,” Silas whispered.

Dana hesitated. Then pulled her own spellbook from her satchel.

“This is my spellbook,” she said. “My…grimoire.” The word felt odd on her tongue, but no less right for sounding foreign.

He took it, turned the pages.

“A spellbook you say?” his brow tightened in confusion. “I’m sorry, dear. All I see are illustrations,” he said. “Notes. Herbs.”

He handed it back to her. 

She flipped it open and the page shimmered. A Spell for the Bonded.

Fox. 

“I see more,” she said quietly. 

He nodded at her encouragingly. 

Dana walked to his altar and set her spellbook there, its pages opening like a crocus. “There’s one I want to try.”

She named the ingredients.

He nodded briskly. “I’ll fetch them.”

He moved through the shelves with practiced speed. Dana, meanwhile, set out her wooden bowl. Lit two more candles. Spread her hands.

She reminded herself what he had said.

Connect to the earth. To the air. To the sky and the trees.

She tried.

And felt it.

Something stirring. Tugging from the cardinal directions. Northward, strongest of all.

She closed her eyes. Let her breath steady.

And began to speak.

Chapter 35

Notes:

Becca, Anna, Kim. You guys. YOU GUYS. Thank you for talking me into sleeping on it when one scammer made me want to pull the whole fucking fic. And also for all that beta work, I guess.

Fox padded carefully over the forest path, his russet fur ruffled slightly by the breeze. The late morning sun filtered through the canopy above, dappling the undergrowth with gold. He moved with purpose, though his injured paw still made him favor one side. 

“Tell me about your witch,” Fox said. His voice was polite, almost casual, though the limp in his gait made each step deliberate. The moth rode lightly between his shoulders, wings tucked close.

“A mage he was,” the moth replied, antennae twitching thoughtfully. “ Kind, though not terribly powerful. His magic was of the Light. Old, when he called me to him. His name was Heinrich.”

“He no longer lives?”

“Nay,” said the moth, a quiet note of sadness coloring the word.

Fox dipped his head slightly. “What was he like? Did you have a… close bond?”

“Oh yes ,” said the moth, brighter now. “Helped him with spells, I did. And stories. He was a great gossip. Sent me into the homes of those he didn’t trust—and those he did. I was a collector of secrets.” The moth gave a small flutter. “I didn’t care for gossip the way he did, but still. Those were some of the best times of my life. Years ago now. A long time for a moth.”

They walked on in silence for a few strides, the sounds of birdsong and wind filling the space between them.

Fox considered the information that Moth was sharing. Wondered about how Heinrich had “called” Moth to him. He knew that Dana hadn’t done the same, and the knowledge gave him a queer feeling. 

He also wondered how many unnatural years Heinrich had infused into the insect’s life by magically giving him a voice and powers, whatever they might be. Fox knew that familiars drew their powers from their witch or mage, but here was Moth, long after his mage had died, still speaking and growing far older than any moth normally would. 

And then he recalled the other thing that Moth had said. 

“What did you mean, ” Fox asked, “that his magic was ‘of the Light’?”

The moth fluttered up for a moment, flying slightly ahead to where the Overseer walked along the path before them, staff in hand, tall hat brushing against overhanging branches. When the moth came back, his voice, even in Fox’s head, was quieter, a little more cautious. 

“There are two kinds of magic,” the moth said. “Light and Dark.”

Something about those words stirred in Fox—not a memory, exactly, but an image. Dana. Bathed in golden light, her eyes fierce and full of purpose. He didn’t know when or how he’d seen her that way, but the image stayed, bright and unshakable. She was a witch of Light.

So…what was its opposite? 

“Dark magic,” he said slowly. “Is it bad? Wrong?”

The moth considered him for a moment. Then, instead of answering, he said, “Raven could speak to you about the Dark. Her mage worked with it. So did the Overseer’s.”

Fox blinked in surprise. He looked up at the man walking ahead—tall, robed in grey, his staff glinting in the sun where the crystal caught the light. The Overseer did not seem cruel. He seemed calm. Steady.

Perhaps that was why he had freed himself from the hold of his witch.

Fox was about to say so aloud—

And stopped.

The world around him shivered. Not visibly, not in any way a bird or beast would notice. But inside him, something shifted. A pull, sudden and sure, flared through his chest.

He froze mid-step. His breath caught.

The moth’s wings flicked open. “What is it?”

Fox couldn’t speak. His legs trembled. A warmth had bloomed inside him—certain, golden, undeniable. Not pain. Not magic gone awry. Something older. Something real.

And then he felt her.

Dana.

Not her voice. Not her thoughts. But her presence—an ache, a tug on a thread that had gone slack and suddenly pulled taut again, alive with recognition.

Fox staggered, the limp in his hind leg forgotten. He let out a low, startled whine and dropped to his haunches, his body shaking with the force of it.

A ripple ran across his fur—down his flank, over his paws—like sunlight gliding across water. He looked down and saw it: a mark forming along the inside of his front leg. Pale, delicate, almost luminous against his red-gold fur.

A sigil of some kind.

He didn’t know what it meant. But he knew who had cast it.

Dana.

Somewhere, she had reached out across the distance, through spell and longing and blood.

And she had found him.

***

The last syllable fell from Dana’s lips like a stone dropped into water.

The spell settled.

For a moment, nothing moved. No flicker of candlelight. No shift in the air.

Then the silence broke.

It started low in her chest—a vibration, like a second heartbeat that wasn’t her own. Magic surged through her blood, not with force, but with resonance. As if something long out of tune had suddenly snapped into harmony.

She drew in a sharp breath. Her knees gave slightly, and she gripped the edge of the table for balance.

“Steady,” Silas said quietly from behind her, but she barely heard him.

For Dana, the magic wasn’t burning or wild. It wasn’t bright or golden. It was serene. Deep. Unwavering.

A tether pulled taut.

Fox.

She felt him like the peal of a bell carried on the wind—clear, distant, and true. Not just alive. Present. The spell had found him. And it had connected them. For the first time since they were torn apart, she could feel the thread running strong between them. Not words. Not images. But something unmistakable.

It was like wind, she thought. Something you couldn’t see, couldn’t hold, but that moved through you all the same. 

He was still a little hurt, but better than before her healing spell.

Not in danger. Not broken. But aching. Moving carefully. Alive in every sense of the word.

She pressed a hand to her chest as her eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Dana?” Silas asked, his voice still gentle, but concerned now.

She shook her head once, not in refusal but in awe. “He felt it,” she said. “Wherever he is, he felt it.”

She didn’t need to say more. The bond between them vibrated with certainty. She could feel his awareness through it like a current tugging gently through her limbs.

And more than that—he was moving. She could feel him drawing nearer, every step a quiet echo in her blood. He’s coming.

A warmth bloomed along the inside of her wrist. She turned her hand.

There, where her skin was thinnest, a mark had appeared—no ink, no wound, but a sigil traced in light. Four curling lines, delicate and sharp as thorns, spiraled outward from a single point. The design pulsed faintly, like a living thing.

Not a scar.

A bond.

A beginning.

Fox was on his way back to her.

She kept her hand closed around the mark, the pulse of it still humming faintly beneath her skin. The warmth hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened—no longer a flare of magic, but a serene, living connection.

Behind her, Silas cleared his throat gently. “That was… not a spell I recognize.”

Dana turned slowly to face him.

He was watching her, not with suspicion, but with something closer to reverence. His hands were folded before him, his brow furrowed with thoughtful curiosity.

“You didn’t say what you were casting,” he added carefully.

Dana hesitated. Not out of distrust—but because, until now, it had belonged only to her. This longing. This connection. This need.

“It’s called the Spell for the Bonded,” she said softly.

His eyes flicked to her hand. “That mark—did the spell make it?”

She nodded. “It’s part of the binding, I think.”

His expression sharpened. “You’re bound to someone?”

“A familiar,” she said. “His name is Fox.”

Silas blinked. “You’ve… called a familiar?”

“I—“ Dana started, unsure how to describe what had happened until this point. “Not at first. I didn’t even know what I was a witch when we first met. But he’s been with me since I left home. We got separated.”

“And this spell—” He stepped closer, his voice still gentle. “It connects you to him?”

“Yes.” Her fingers loosened over the mark. “It doesn’t show me where he is. But I can feel him. Like he’s tethered to me again.”

Silas exhaled slowly. “That’s not hedge magic.”

“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The candles flickered softly. Somewhere behind the shop, a bird called once and went still.

“I thought him lost,” Dana said finally. “But he’s not.”

There was something grounding in the knowledge, like finding her footing after a long stumble in the dark. She didn’t know how far he was—but the bond held. And that meant he was still with her. Still hers. Even across miles and silence.

Silas nodded, quiet. “And now you know you’re not waking up alone.”

She looked down at the sigil, still faintly glowing. Still alive.

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

She opened her hand and let the mark catch the candlelight again—four curling lines, delicate as lace, spiraling from a single center point just above her wrist. It pulsed faintly with each breath she took. She couldn’t stop looking at it.

Behind her, Silas shifted his weight. “Do you… know what it did? What it does? That spell?”

Dana tore her eyes away and turned to him. “Not exactly,” she admitted. “It didn’t say what would happen. Only what to gather. How to cast it.”

Silas frowned, not unkindly. “And you cast it anyway.”

She nodded once.

He scratched his chin, eyes flicking toward the circle of ash in her bowl. “Bonded magic,” he muttered. “That’s a few branches higher than I’m qualified to climb.”

“You’ve never seen it before?”

“I’ve heard of it. Bits and pieces. In stories. It’s not the sort of thing hedge mages like me get trained in—too ancient, too rare. We’re more likely to fix someone’s cracked tooth than tie their soul to another.”

Dana swallowed. “Then you don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I know what I’ve seen.” His tone gentled. “It worked. And whatever it did—it didn’t hurt you.”

She looked down again at the mark.

“Still,” Silas said, “you’d do well to be careful. Magic’s like fire. Doesn’t care if you mean well when you strike the flint.”

Dana nodded slowly. “I understand.”

There was a pause, soft and companionable. Then Silas clapped his hands once. “Well. That’s quite enough for one day, I’d say.”

Dana gave a quiet laugh. “Agreed.”

He stepped past her, tidying the edge of the table with practiced ease. “Where are you staying, if I may ask?”

She hesitated.

“In a barn,” she said finally. “Ruined. Up on the ridge.”

He paused mid-motion and turned to look at her. “You’re sleeping rough?”

She shrugged one shoulder.

“You’re welcome to stay with me and my wife,” he said. “We’ve a bit of space in the cottage. Or—if you’re not comfortable with that—there’s a room above the shop here. Simple, but clean. Warm. You’d be safe.”

The idea of a roof overhead nearly undid her. Her throat tightened before she could stop it.

“The room would be perfect,” she said, so unused to being shown kindness that she had trouble getting the words out. 

He gave a nod, as if that was what he’d expected all along. “You’ll join us for dinner, then? At the cottage, this evening?”

Dana blinked at him, startled. “I’d like that.”

“I’ve got a few things to tend to in the shop before closing, but I’ll come find you at dusk.”

“Alright.”

Silas gave her a smile—kind, tired around the edges—and slipped back through the curtain to the front of the shop, his footsteps fading softly over the old wooden floor.

Dana stood alone in the little back room, the mark still glowing faintly on her wrist. She could feel Fox’s presence—distant, but no longer out of reach. Her magic thrummed steadily in her blood. For the first time in what felt like weeks, her shoulders eased.

She listened quietly at the curtain’s edge, and, hearing no customers on the other side, came out into the front of the shop. Waving awkwardly at Silas as she approached the apothecary door, she stepped out into the sunlight.

The village was already in motion. Late morning light spilled over the rooftops, bright and golden, warming the cobblestones beneath her feet. The square buzzed with activity—market stalls in full swing, children weaving between baskets, a rooster crowing late from somewhere near the inn.

She moved through it with her hood down, eyes soft, hands loose at her sides.

Something had changed.

Inside her. Between her and Fox. Between her and the world. A deeper, more profound connection. To Fox. To her magic.

She wasn’t fixed—but she was no longer fraying.

She paused at a baker’s cart and bought a small fruit cake, the coins warm from her hand. The woman behind the stall smiled at her. Dana smiled back.

It was the smallest thing, but it made her feel human again.

She was just turning toward the well in the center of the square when she saw her.

The woman from the apothecary shop the day before—the one who had ordered the tonic and left without a word. She stood near a table of baskets, her hands buried in onions, but her eyes were fixed on Dana.

Not curiosity.

Not recognition.

Suspicion.

Dana’s smile faded.

The woman didn’t look away.

Dana held her gaze for a beat longer, then turned deliberately toward the far side of the square, her cake cupped lightly in one hand, her other tucked behind her cloak where the mark still pulsed, steady and sure.

She felt the stare.

But she’d been hiding long enough. 

Chapter 36

Notes:

Once again, MASSIVE thanks to my betas Anna, Becca and Kim for the help with this chapter that got so big it's now two.

Fox halted mid-stride. One paw hovered just above the dirt, his breath caught in his chest.

There it was again—that tug. Not sharp, not sudden, but true. Like the pull of the moon on tidewater. Like hunger. Like gravity.

He turned his head slowly. Not just north. West, now a little too. A certainty settled into his limbs.

“I know which way to go,” he said, voice edged with wonder.

The moth stirred on his back, wings fluttering lazily. “Of course you do,” it said. 

The Overseer had stopped just ahead on the path. His tall frame stood still, robed in grey, the sunlight gleaming off the crystal atop his staff. He turned, slowly, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his high, shadowed hat.

Fox lowered his paw and looked up at him.

“You knew we were linked,” he said. “That I was hers.”

The Overseer’s voice was even. “I knew you were familiar-bound. But this…” His eyes dropped, just briefly, to Fox’s front leg.

Fox followed his gaze. There, near his paw, the mark glowed faintly beneath the fur—four curling lines etched in pale gold, almost invisible unless the light caught it just right. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

The Overseer’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He said nothing more.

Fox shifted. “It worked,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is, whatever it means—it worked.”

The silence that followed was not disapproval. But it wasn’t quite comfort either.

Fox flicked an ear. “I don’t need you to guide me anymore,” he said. “She’s pulling. I can feel her.” And he could, too, like a compass finding true north.

The Overseer gave a slow nod.

“Then I will see you safely there,” he said. “As I promised.”

Fox blinked. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d expected the man to leave—or hoped he would. But the offer carried no weight of obligation. Just a quiet purpose.

The moth fluttered in place, settling again between his shoulders. “It’s rare,” it murmured. “To feel someone like that. Rarer still when the bond is new.”

Fox didn’t respond. The sensation of Dana pulling him forward still filled his chest. She wasn’t calling him with words or magic. She wasn’t reaching out.

She simply was.

And that was enough. For now. 

***

Dana lingered in the shadow of the linden tree near the edge of the square, the fruit cake long gone, the warmth of it lingering faintly in her stomach. The mark on her wrist had cooled to a steady, gentle thrum beneath her cloak.

She wasn’t hiding, exactly. Just… out of the way.

She could still feel the woman’s eyes on her. Not physically, not anymore—the woman had moved on, basket in hand—but the weight of that look clung to her like a burr. Suspicion tinged with fear. 

Dana drew her cloak tighter. It hadn’t been that long ago that she had to flee her own village. The memory of the looks she received and the whispers she overheard still made her flinch. And she was a stranger here—even if the village knew Silas, even if he might vouch for her, she still wasn’t safe. She’d seen what people did to those they didn’t understand.

The shadows were growing longer. The sun had dipped low enough to gild the tops of the buildings and throw gold across the cobblestones. Merchants were beginning to shutter their stalls. The scent of cooking fires drifted through the air.

And yet she couldn’t quite sink into the rhythm of it. She had been a villager once. In a town much like this one. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She never would be again.

"So there you are!" came a now familiar voice behind her.

She turned. Silas stood a few paces away, tall and quiet, hands folded behind his back.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” she said, hearing the edge in her voice and wishing she could soften it.

He didn’t challenge her. “Think nothing of it,” he said simply. 

“I just needed a moment,” she said, looking out at the square. 

“I don’t blame you,” he said kindly. “You’re standing still in a world that keeps moving.”

“Or the other way around,” she said with a faint smile. “Is it time?”

“Just about,” Silas said companionably, turning slightly and inclining his head in silent invitation. “My wife will have supper on by now, and I promised to bring you with me.”

They walked together out of the square and down a narrow lane lined with small country homes. His cottage wasn’t far—stone-walled, roof thick with thatch and moss, a tidy kitchen garden beginning to fade with the season. The last of the beans hung on brittle vines, and dry herbs crackled on their twine where they’d been left to cure in the sun.

Smoke curled from the chimney, and the smell of stew met them at the door. Dana’s mouth watered. 

“Silas, finally,” came a voice from within as he opened it. “I was beginning to think you’d adopted another hedgehog.”

“She’s not a hedgehog,” Silas replied, ushering Dana inside with a glance. “She’s a guest.”

A woman appeared from the small kitchen, wiping her hands on a linen towel. She was tall and broad through the shoulders, with silver streaks in her plait and a brightness in her eyes that caught Dana off guard. Warm, but also sharp—someone who missed nothing and chose carefully when to speak.

“So this is the girl,” she said, and Dana straightened without meaning to.

The woman reached out and pressed both of Dana’s hands in hers.

“I’m Maren,” she said. “You’re welcome here.”

Dana swallowed a tight ball of feeling in her throat. “Thank you.”

“Shoes by the door,” Maren added briskly, turning back to the kitchen. “I’ll show you where the spare linens are after supper.”

***

The table was small and solid, built by Silas’s own hand if Dana had to guess. A thick, earthenware pot of stew steamed at the center, flanked by rounds of fresh bread and a wedge of soft, pale cheese. A jar of pickled beets gleamed like garnets in the lamplight.

Maren poured drinks—cider, crisp and tart—and settled in with a sigh. “You should know you were the talk of the market today.”

Dana froze mid-bite. Being noticed was something she had been trying very hard to avoid. Perhaps Fox had been right—between her hair and her looks, slipping past people unseen had never been and was never going to be easy.

“Busybodies, all of them,” Silas muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Maren ignored him.

“I went in for leeks, and before I’d even asked the price, I had Mrs. Callan in one ear and old Nessa in the other,” Maren said, tearing a hunk of bread. “Wondering where you came from. What you bought. What kind of girl travels alone with her hood up and her chin high.”

Dana flushed. “Did they say anything else?”

“Only that you were too pretty to be harmless,” Maren said with a grin. “And that your cloak was witchy.”

Silas groaned softly.

Dana let out a startled laugh, the only thing she could do in the face of such an alarming statement. 

“She’s teasing, mostly,” Silas said. “But still. You should be cautious. Nessa’s the sort who could convince the whole town a ghost’s taken up in her stovepipe.”

“She’s the reason we had to replant the garden last spring,” Maren muttered.

Silas nodded solemnly. “Claimed she saw a vision of a buxom brunette through the window, thought I was cheating on Maren.”

“She said she saw hair and shoulders, ” Maren said indignantly.

Dana laughed, for real this time, and Maren looked pleased.

As the meal wore on, the conversation softened. Maren told a story about a runaway goat and a broken fence, and another about the midwife slipping on pears and swearing like a sailor. Dana listened, smiling, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders inch by inch.

After a while, Silas asked, “Will you be staying long?”

“Maybe not long,” Dana said. 

“Oh?” Maren asked, tilting her head.

Dana hesitated, then said, “I’m waiting for someone.”

Without thinking, she touched the edge of her wrist.

Silas glanced toward her, then said, carefully, “Would you like more… lessons?”

Dana looked to Silas, unsure. How much did his wife know? 

But Maren only shrugged. “I know who and what I married,” she said, reaching for more cheese. “You may speak of magic and not fear judgment.”

Dana could have wilted in relief. Still, it was an odd thing to discuss. 

“Maren’s mother was a sea witch,” Silas explained. “Though Maren herself did not inherit her power.” 

“Too much like my father, am I,” Maren said without resentment. 

“A gossip and a cheater at cards,” Silas joked, already leaning away from the linen towel that came shooting out from under the table on Maren’s side and whacked his shoulder. 

Dana laughed, surprised and pleased at how easily it came. 

Silas winked at his wife and then took a long sip of cider, sighing expansively as the fire in the hearth popped. 

“Dana is just coming into her power,” he said. “And a great power it is.” 

Dana’s smile faded, but not from unease. The sincerity in Silas’s voice settled over her like a cloak newly fastened. She looked down at her cup, fingers curling around its warmth.

"You said you didn't inherit your mother's power. Is that how it works? Are witches born to witches?"

Maren smiled sadly. "Yes," she said softly. "Though there aren't many of us left."

Dana wondered if her family was among those that were left... or not. 

A pause passed between the three of them. Dana hesitated a long moment before she said, her voice low, “I cast a spell today. A potent one. It helped me feel… connected. To my familiar.”

Maren nodded, unsurprised.

“He’s still far away,” Dana said. “But I can feel him now. Closer. Moving toward me.”

Her voice had gone soft, full of something like wonder.

Maren smiled. “That must be a comfort.”

“It is,” Dana admitted. “It’s strange—I’ve missed him so much. But tonight it doesn’t feel as sharp. It feels like something’s… realigned.”

Maren propped her head on her chin and gave Dana a long look. “Tell me about him,” she said. 

***

The light was shifting, the sun getting low. Across the country, people would be sitting down for supper, settling in in front of hearths and rubbing muscles sore from a day’s long work, their bones calling for bed. 

Fox could feel the call of his bones as well, but as the sun sunk lower, they prickled with the anticipation of the oncoming shift, knowing they would soon revert back to their true form. 

He walked on, unwilling to rest, the call of his bond pulling him ever closer. 

“Tell me, Fox, ” the moth said, still sitting on his shoulder. “ How did you meet your witch?”

What to tell the familiar…

He could simply tell it about stepping out between two elms at sunset and how he watched as she fell back, her hand flying to her blade. How there had been no fear in her. Only anger. Only ferocity. Only vim.

Or he could tell it about before then, how he’d awoken in a field with no memory. About how he’d caught her scent on the wind, cresting the rise of a hill.

How he’d watched through the brush outside her cottage the day she came running home from the village, packing her things with frantic, hurricane-like energy—tears streaming, curses flying. Watched as villagers gathered on the edge of town, stirred to a frenzy by that mealy-smelling farmhand, Alexander, who looked at Dana with equal parts hunger and impotent rage.

Fox had bared his fangs from the shadows then, aching to tear the man apart.

He’d seen her storm to her doorstep, drop her things in defiance. Angry as a badger, fierce as fire. Ready to stand and defend her place among people who didn’t deserve her—who couldn’t hold a candle to her intelligence, her compassion, her courage.

He’d watched as that defiance gave way to reason. Watched her lift her bag again, wipe her face, and slip over the garden fence just as the mob crested the rise on a tide of fear and fury.

And he’d followed—through field and wood, dusk and rain.

She moved like someone born to survive. Quick to find shelter, smart about where she built her fires. And when she paused to read a signpost, lips moving just slightly over the words, it struck him—that too set her apart. Few women could read. Fewer still knew how to read the land. On the day he’d finally shown himself to her, he watched her rescue a fawn trapped in a ravine, her body steady and calm as the mother paced above.

He had watched her run away with only a cloak and a satchel, and still, she turned her face to the sun and gathered strength from it. Eyes closed, arms slack at her sides, face painted gold. She stood in a field of wheat and pulled up the energy of ancient gods and goddesses, the dry rattle of chaff echoing through the air. Insects swirled up around her in that shaft of light, as drawn to her as Fox was. She hadn’t known what she was. But he had. And he stood in awe of the creature before him, in awe of his assignment to her person, however it had come about. 

He hadn’t needed memory to recognize her. The truth had lived in his bones: lead, protect, guard, assist. She was his witch. His singular purpose.

Before he ever stepped out from between those elms, she had already proven herself to be extraordinary. And beautiful besides.

It wasn’t just the bond. It wasn’t just instinct.

It was her.

It was her .

And how on earth did he describe that?

So he opted for the truth, if only its bare bones.

“She first saw me at sunset. She raised her blade and threatened to run me through.”

If a moth could laugh, it did so, the sound like the tinkling of a small bell in Fox’s head. 

Fox’s ears twitched. He huffed a breath through his nose and kept walking, the path curling gently between birch and beech.

But the laughter lingered, not mocking—just knowing.

And with it came a familiar weight in his chest: wonder, confusion. Ache.

It wasn’t only the moth’s question that stirred it, nor the memory of Dana standing in that wheatfield, golden and serene and unbroken. It was the bond itself—bright now, undeniable. It hummed through his limbs with every step, as if reminding him who he was, and who he belonged to.

The more he learned from the other familiars, the more curious he became about how he and Dana had been linked in the first place—and why. But right now, none of that mattered as much as getting back to her. It wasn’t just the pull of the bond—Familiar-bound or this new, marked one—it was her. What he felt for her. Something that, he believed, existed apart from either magic or mark.

He longed to wrap his arms around her in the darkness of night, to offer her comfort, to lower his lips to hers and feel whatever nameless energy it was that zipped through his veins at the contact. He craved her touch, her smell, the way she said his name. 

He took a step, then another, the direction clearer than it had ever been.

And the Overseer followed, his staff tapping gently behind them.

***

Dana rested her hands around the warm curve of her mug, gaze distant. “He found me when I didn’t know I needed finding,” she said.

Her lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close. “There was a steadiness to him. A way of looking at me like he already knew who I was, even before I had any idea myself.”

She went quiet for a beat. The fire popped softly.

“I never called him,” she said. “He just… came.”

Maren didn’t interrupt.

“He stayed close,” Dana went on, voice quieter now. “Even when I gave him every reason not to. Even when I ran. He didn’t ask anything of me. Just walked beside me. As if that was enough.”

She drew a finger along the rim of the mug.

“I can feel him even now. Like a heartbeat far away. Faint, but steady.”

​Maren watched her for a moment, then reached across the table and covered Dana’s hand with her own. “A true bond, then,” she said, “even before today.”

Dana didn’t answer. Just turned her head to look out the cottage’s small window and watched as the sun sank below the horizon. 

Chapter 37

Notes:

A further thank you to my betas. 🙏🏻

After the dishes were stacked and the cider had been drunk, Maren handed Dana a bundle of folded linens.

“I know you’d told Silas you’d stay above the shop. But you’re welcome here. And you’re welcome to stay longer than a night,” she said, her tone light but reassuring.

Dana hesitated. “I had been planning to stay there, yes.”

Maren snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s damp up there and the window sticks. You’re staying here tonight. You need a real bed and a door that locks.”

“She’s not wrong about the window,” Silas added, pouring the last of the cider.

Dana smiled slowly. “Thank you. That… actually sounds wonderful.”

“Good,” Maren said briskly. “Then it’s settled.”

“You know that’ll make things worse with—” Silas started.

“Shhh” Maren pressed, looking at Silas like he’d just vented the most untenable bit of gossip.

Maren looked at Dana with a steadying nod. “Nessa,” she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. “She lives next door,” she said.

Dana huffed a laugh.

Maren handed her the bundle and nodded toward the stairs. “Go on up. I’ll bring a candle.”

***

The guest room was small but clean, with a quilted bedspread and the faint smell of lavender lingering in the corners. A single window overlooked the garden, the marigolds below catching the last threads of light.

Maren lit a small bedside candle and set it down.

“However long you stay,” she said softly, “you’re safe here.”

Dana met her eyes. “Thank you.”

And then, for the first time in weeks, she climbed into a real bed beneath a whole roof—free of the prying eyes of a proprietor, and let herself rest.

***

Dana woke just before dawn.

The world outside was still hushed and blue, the sky just beginning to pale at the edges. Somewhere nearby, a rooster was just finding his voice. The cottage was warm around her, the linens soft and unfamiliar.

But it wasn’t the morning that stirred her.

It was the bond.

She could feel him again—Fox—not just as a presence or tug at her chest, but as something clearer. Sharper. Human. She didn’t know how, but in that liminal moment between sleep and waking, she felt it as surely as breath.

He was a man now. Somewhere out there at the edge of dawn.

And that was the shape she most missed him in.

Dana slipped from the bed and padded downstairs doing her best not to wake Maren or Silas. She eased the side door open and stepped barefoot into the chill of morning.

The garden was quiet, silvered with dew and edged in early autumn fog. The rosemary stood stiff, heavy with moisture, and the few remaining calendula blooms hung low and sleepy. The ground cooled her feet instantly, but she didn’t mind.

She moved toward a withered sprig of thyme, its leaves curled at the edges, color gone to gray.

There had been that spell in Silas’s book. A simple charm, one meant to nourish and mend. She didn’t need the pages now—she could recall the words. Dana knelt beside the plant, her breath misting in the morning air.

She pressed her palm gently to the soil and whispered the spell, letting the words slip past her lips like steam from a cup of tea. Her chest filled with warmth—light and slow—and that warmth passed through her arm, into her fingertips, into the earth.

The thyme stirred.

Not much—but enough. The gray receded slightly. The stems lifted. Color returned at the tips.

Dana smiled, a quiet bloom of satisfaction in her chest. 

Then, from behind her, came a shuffle of loose stones. 

She turned sharply, tensing. Just beyond the garden fence stood the same woman from the day before in the apothecary shop—gray hair scraped back, green shawl pulled tight, eyes sharp beneath her furrowed brow.

“I know what you are,” the woman said flatly.

Conjurer! Witch! The words hurtled through her memory and with them came a hot, breathless rush that left her heart pounding.

Had the woman seen? No—she couldn’t have. The spell was already done.

“Leave here. We don’t want you.”

Dana straightened slowly, brushing her damp palms on the hem of her dress. The fog coiled between them like smoke. Her heartbeat thundered, but she kept her voice steady. The last thing she wanted was to raise the woman’s ire any more than it already would, to people like that, it would only prove the woman right.

She jutted her chin. “I’ll be gone soon enough.”

The woman tilted her head, gaze narrowing. “Best if it’s sooner. Nothing good comes of people like you staying too long. You start to rot things from the inside.”

People like you. 

Dana didn’t answer, her fists clenched at her sides. It would not do to acknowledge the woman’s fears or accusations.

Then the cottage door creaked open behind her.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Maren muttered, stepping out in her dressing gown, a basket of chicken feed in one hand. “Do you lie in wait for people, Nessa, or do you just skulk by instinct?”

Nessa drew herself up. “I was just taking the path to—”

“To nowhere,” Maren snapped. “You don’t pass this way unless you mean to. Now get.”

“I’ll speak to the headman about this,” Nessa said, chin jutting.

“You do that. And I’ll speak to him about the time you left spoiled preserves in the festival booth.” Maren took a step closer. “Go on, now.”

Nessa gave Dana one last look—less fear now, more fury—and turned with a flounce, stalking away down the footpath between the gardens.

Dana stood blinking.

Maren sighed. “Sorry you had to deal with that. She’s all suspicion and vinegar. Thinks anyone who doesn’t bake pies is a threat.”

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Dana murmured.

“She’s the trouble,” Maren said briskly. “You’re the guest.”

A moment passed, then another soft creak as the back door opened again. Silas emerged with three mugs in his hands.

“She was here again?” he asked, handing one to Maren and one to Dana.

Maren took a long drink. “She was.”

Silas turned to Dana, nodding toward the thyme. “That was you?”

She nodded. “I remembered the charm. From your book.”

He smiled. “That’s good work. Precise. You’ve a gentle hand for it.”

Dana flushed, but the warmth felt good.

“I shouldn’t have tried out here. In the open.” 

“No,” he said, “probably not.” He gave her a reassuring smile and looked at her carefully. “The power in you. It’s waking fast. I’d like to help you, while you’re here. Before you go north of the veil.”

She met his eyes. “I would like that,” she said. “Behind closed doors?”

Silas chuckled, pleased. 

Maren bumped her shoulder gently. “Come in. I’ve got porridge on the stove and cream that needs using up.”

Dana smiled weakly. She could still feel Fox—faint, but steady, like a fire behind a wall.

Closer now.

She followed them both inside.

***

“He’s asking for the truth, even if he doesn’t realize it,” the moth said. “Why don’t you tell him? You help familiars. That is your purpose. He is a familiar. So help him.”

The Overseer continued walking on as if he hadn’t heard. Eventually, he spoke. 

“That’s not all he is.”

The moth shifted, displeased. “No. He is more than a familiar. He is also a man—a man with a past he doesn’t remember. So I’ll ask: which part of him is asking for the truth?”

“Both, I think,” the Overseer admitted.

“And yet you withhold it.”

“He’s not ready for the truth. Neither is she.”

“Were any of us?” Moth asked, and the Overseer kicked a stone in irritation at the humble truth of its words. 

“When you flew with them in Highmere, ” the Overseer said, slightly defensive. “Did you see the blade she carried? Did you see the marks upon it?”

The moth fluttered its wings. 

The Overseer stood taller. “The truth has been with them all the while. When they are ready, they will see it.” 

Chapter 38

Notes:

Your comments are what is keeping me writing. Thank you so so much for them!

​​​​​​That night, Dana dreamed of a great tree.

It stood alone in the center of a wide, windswept field. Its roots burrowed deep into the dark soil, and its branches stretched high and bare into a sky the color of ash. The bark was smooth and pale as bone. Not a single leaf clung to it.

All around, the field whispered with the sound of air sweeping over brittle grass. The wind was constant, but carried no birdsong, no scent of green or bloom. Nothing grew but the tree—and even it looked starved of life.

She approached it slowly, her feet bare against the cold earth. Beneath her touch, the trunk was warm. Faintly pulsing. As though a heart still beat inside it.

And then she saw: a single bud.

Tiny. Tucked high in the crook of a branch, like a secret. It trembled.

She watched as it unfurled—not green, not gold, but a strange and shifting shade between them, like light and shadow trying to become one. The petals opened. A bloom unlike any she had ever seen.

But before she could reach for it, the wind rose—and from the far end of the field came a figure.

A fox, padding silently toward the tree with quiet purpose. 

He looked up at the bloom. So did she.

And as they watched, the sky began to darken—not with storm, but with a heavy pall that felt something like forgetting . The air went still.

And the flower began to wilt.

Dana turned to call out—to stop whatever was happening—but her voice made no sound. Her mouth moved. Nothing came.

The fox lifted its gaze to hers. Its eyes weren’t gold. Weren’t brown. They were storm-colored. Sad. Knowing.

They had arrived too late.

No one else would come.

She woke with her hand pressed to her chest, fingers curled like she had tried to catch something. Something small. Something vanishing.

And yet—Fox felt closer. Like they were two distant points on a map folded in on each other.

She exhaled softly into the quiet dawn.

Her heart settled into peace. Into knowing. 

This had been her last sleep without him. 

***

Dana sat cross-legged on the rug in the back room of the apothecary shop, a small ceramic pot cradled in her hands. Inside, a tincture-in-progress swirled with coppery-red flecks of herb suspended in water and alcohol. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried—again—to stir the mixture without touching the spoon. It wobbled once, rotated a quarter turn, then clattered against the rim and stilled. The scent of safflower and camomile threaded up threw the air, taunting her.

Silas watched from his stool near the shelf of cloudy glass bottles, arms folded loosely across his chest. “You’re strong,” he said. “That’s plain. But you haven’t learned to control it yet. And without control, strength isn’t worth much.”

Dana exhaled sharply. “You said this one was easy.”

“For someone with a steady mind,” Silas replied, not unkindly. “Yours is… preoccupied.”

And it was. She sighed out her irritation. Silas wasn’t the one making the process difficult today, she was.

Fox was close. She could feel the pull of him growing stronger, like the invisible tension between two magnets just before they snap together. He was so close she felt as though she could reach out and touch him, and the thought that they would be reunited by nightfall—an assuredness that reached down to her bones—had her distracted to the point of missing half of what Silas had said during their lesson and reciting the wrong words to the incantation twice before he gently took the spoon from the bowl in front of her.

“Let us take a short break,” he said with a knowing smile. 

Dana rose from the floor, wiping dust from her hands. She bent down to retrieve the bowl she’d been practicing on, and nearly upended it when she tried to set it down. Her hands were shaky, anticipation rolling through her and fraying her every nerve. 

When the bell above the shop door clattered softly in the quiet air, she nearly jumped off the ground. 

A moment later, Maren slipped into the back room, a woven basket balanced against her hip. 

She smiled when she saw Dana and set the basket heavily on a bare bit of table. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, breathlessly. “I thought you two might be hungry.”

Silas walked forward and leaned down to press a soft buss to his wife’s cheek. “As ever,” he said, “your timing is exquisite.”

Maren beamed and reached into her basket. 

“I’ve brought bread,” she said, narrating the items as she lifted them out of the basket. “Apple jam, cheese, pickled leeks, small beer, and–” she reached into the basket as if to pull out the last item with a flourish. “Clover honey, to help bind what you cast.” 

But a puzzled look came over her as she tipped her face forward to peer into the basket. 

“Blast,” she said with a frustrated huff. “I’ve forgotten the damned honey.”

Silas smiled at his beloved. “We’ll sup just fine without it,” he said. 

“Nonsense,” Maren said. “The honey was the whole point of my trip! If you can’t bind with oarweed , my mother used to say, clover honey is next best. How is the girl to connect with her power without all the help we can give her?” 

She said this to Silas with her fists pressed into her hips and her chin jutted forward.

Silas held up his hands in surrender. 

“I’ll just nip out to Madge’s stall and buy a new jar,” she said, reaching into the pockets on the front of her apron. She turned once again to Silas and held out a hand. “I’ve no coin,” she said briskly. 

The apothecary was patting down his own pockets when Dana stepped forward. 

“I’ll go,” she said with a smile. 

“Nonsense,” Maren said, distractedly, still searching her pockets. “You’re the guest.”

Dana put a hand on the woman’s arm. “I could use the air,” she said. “Truly.” 

Sitting around and waiting for Fox was becoming a physically untenable concept. She needed to get out and do something. Move. Time had slowed to a honied drip, and anything she could do to hurry it along was a welcome distraction. 

Maren looked from Dana to her husband. 

“She’s been having trouble focusing,” he said delicately. 

Maren leaned back on her heels, narrowing her eyes shrewdly. “Ah,” she said. She turned to Dana. “Madge’s stall is just down the road,” she said. “Near the wall by the blacksmith’s.”

Dana turned and bustled out of the shop without another word, stepping into the sunlight with a coin tucked in her palm and purpose in her stride. The day had warmed while they worked, and the light fell in gilt shafts between the clustered buildings. Market voices carried on the breeze—the sound almost comforting. The scent of baking bread and woodsmoke lingered in the air, mingling with the ever-present brine from the distant sea.

She made her way down the lane, sidestepping a group of boys chasing one another with willow switches and dodging a mule cart turning slowly toward the square.

Fox was close. She felt it in every step. Her skin tingled, her thoughts scattered. She passed a vendor selling carved toys and nearly tripped on the uneven cobbles, grinning foolishly to herself. Soon. By nightfall. She could hardly bear the weight of it.

The stall came into view at the end of the lane—Madge’s place, unmistakable with its scalloped awning and the looping bundles of beeswax candles strung from its edges. Dana waited behind an old man inspecting jars of elderflower syrup, fingers tapping restlessly against her thigh. When it was her turn, she stepped forward and asked for clover honey. Madge didn’t ask questions. Just handed her the jar, wrapped it in a bit of cloth, and held out a hand for payment.

Dana passed over the coin without hesitation, though her purse was lighter than she liked. She’d need work soon. Rat-catching, perhaps. There was always need for that. She’d seen the telltale nibblings on grain sacks outside the millhouse. Perhaps she and Fox could stay in this village for a while and she could learn more from Silas before they headed north.

She turned, honey in hand, her mind already slipping back to the apothecary and the simple, strange joy of Silas and Maren’s company—and Fox, always Fox—

When she walked straight into someone.

She gasped, stumbling slightly, and looked up.

Her breath caught. The world seemed to jar out of rhythm. She staggered back a half-step, heart lurching. A sick twist of instinct curled in her gut, a sudden pulse of dread blooming beneath her ribs. The warmth of the day vanished in an instant, replaced by the echo of shame and outrage she’d thought she’d moved past since being forced to leave her village. 

Alexander.

His face, just as she remembered. Pale eyes, smug mouth, a flush of startled recognition overtaking his features.

“Dana?” he said, blinking in surprise. “Gods, it is you—”

A dozen emotions surged up in her at once: fear, fury, disbelief. Her throat closed. And all she could think to do was get away from him as quickly as she could. 

She stepped sharply around him.

He trotted after her, eager. “Wait—wait! Don’t go. I’ve been looking for you. I have good news.”

What could he possibly have to tell her? And how was he here ? He hadn’t left the county in all of his twenty three years, Dana knew this for a fact. If he’d been looking for her, no good could come of it. Of that she was certain. 

“I don’t care,” she snapped, not stopping. If she hadn’t left Bite and her other things in the back room of the apothecary shop, she would have drawn the blade on the man and threatened to run him through. 

“I’m sorry!” he called out, still hustling to try to stay by her side. “For what I said about you. For what I–” He had to dodge around a donkey that pulled on its lead and swayed its rump out into the lane like the stern of an anchored boat. If Dana had had a carrot, she would have tossed it to the blessed creature. 

Alex swerved back around toward her side. “But it’s safe for you now,” he went on, voice too loud, attracting attention. “Back home. I’ve spoken to everyone. They understand—”

She whirled. “It was only unsafe because of you !” she hissed, more words getting caught in her throat. 

She had never been timid or shy, but she hadn’t stood up for herself in the village like she should have. She’d been too overcome with grief over losing Mildred, and not confident enough in herself at the time to have called Alexander to the carpet and pointed out that he was only trying to ruin her life because she refused to be in his. Because she had said no to him—and he couldn’t stomach being refused. Because it bruised his pride to see her thrive without him, to see her choose solitude and work and wildness over him. Because deep down, he’d known she was better than him, and he hated her for it. 

She wanted to shout it all now—to finally give voice to everything she hadn’t said. She wasn’t the woman who’d fled his village in fear. She was stronger now, surer. And the words burned in her throat, begging to be unleashed.

But this was not the time or place to be having this conversation. Not here. Not now. She turned again, walking faster, but he kept pace, still talking, still pleading.

People were watching them. Two strangers arguing in the square. Of course they were curious.

“I don’t want your news, Alexander,” she hissed. “I don’t want anything from you. That place isn’t my home anymore. You saw to that.”

He reached for her arm, and she yanked it back violently. Magic surged hot and bright beneath her skin, flaring to her fingertips before she crushed it back down. She could not let it show. Not here. Not with these eyes on her.

She broke into a half-run toward the end of the lane, toward the thinner edge of the village, where the woods pushed a field close and the crowd thinned. 

He followed.

“I’ve met your uncle,” he called. “You’ve come into an inheritance.”

That stopped her cold.

She turned.

“What uncle?” Her voice was low, icy. “I don’t have an uncle.”

What game was he playing at here?

“I’ll show you,” he said, his voice brightening with confidence. “He gave me a token. Proof.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stone. Smooth. Round. Pale gray.

Like hers. Like the one Fox had carried when they leapt the falls.

Her hand shot out and seized his wrist.

“Where,” she said, each word like a strike of iron, “did you get that?”

If he had done something to Fox, if he had—

But as her eyes fell to the stone, a flicker of disconcert twisted in her gut. There was no mark on it. No etching. This may be a stone like hers, but it wasn’t the one she’d carried. 

A small wash of relief went through her—he hadn’t gotten this stone from Fox. But whoever he had gotten it from—

And then it happened.

A burst of green light—searing, bright—flashed from the stone in Alexander’s hand.

Dana stumbled back, arm raised to shield her eyes. The air buzzed, static and sharp. She could hear shouting, the scrape of boots.

And then it was gone. Dana gazed at the stone in surprise, Alexander’s face a mirror of her own. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence, as even the animals seemed to be holding their breath, wondering at what had just occurred. 

It had felt, for the moment of that flash, like the stone had called out for someone, even though it had not made a sound. 

And then the silence was broken by—

“WITCH!”

Dana’s head snapped toward the voice. There, just beyond the path, stood Nessa. Her face was white as chalk, her finger extended in shaking accusation.

“WITCH! ” she screamed again, louder this time.

Dana’s heart dropped into her stomach.

The light. The townsfolk. The magic she had barely contained. Had she made the stone flash? She hadn’t felt anything, but—

Alexander staggered back, nearly dropping the stone.

“What in the name of—?” he muttered, staring at the thing in his hand like it had bitten him. The last traces of the green light still shimmered faintly across his palm, leaving behind no heat, no mark—only questions.

“WITCH!” Nessa shrieked again, her voice high and reedy with hysteria. She stood stock-still as though rooted to the path, but her arm trembled in the air, still pointing at Dana.

Dana took a half-step back, the jar of honey still clutched in her hands. Her ears rang. Her breath came too fast.

Alexander blinked at her. Then at Nessa. Then back again.

“No, no, she’s not—” he started, though even he sounded unconvinced. “That wasn’t her. I don’t think that was her.” He looked down at the stone again, his brow furrowing.

“Did you not see it? The light?” Nessa hissed, eyes flashing now with fury. 

“I did,” he admitted, bewildered, “but–” He floundered, looking at Dana and then back at the stone in his hand. 

“Perhaps you’re a witch as well,” Nessa said, and Alexander’s eyes went wide with fright. He took a step back from Dana, his defense of her ending where his own accusation began. 

A low murmur was starting behind them. The market was never truly quiet, but now the tone had changed. Dana could feel it—like the shift in air before a summer storm. People were turning toward them. Peering down the lane. Drawn by the shouting, the strange light.

A farmer’s wife with flour on her apron. A boy carrying a pail of turnips. The blacksmith’s apprentice. One by one, they slowed, stood still, watching.

“What’s happened?” someone asked.

“I saw a flash.”

“There was shouting.”

“Is she all right?”

“No,” Nessa snapped, her voice rising. “She’s not. We’re not. She’s brought witchcraft into this village.”

“That's enough,” Dana said, though her voice wavered. She didn’t shout. Didn’t beg. Just stood there, jaw tight, trying not to let the fear show.

Alexander ran a hand through his hair, looking more panicked by the second. He stared at the stone sitting in his palm and swallowed thickly. 

A small crowd had gathered now—fifteen, maybe twenty people. Some were whispering. Some staring openly. All of them circling a little closer, eyes flicking between Dana and the woman still frozen with her arm outstretched.

Dana took another step back. Her mind was already racing. She’d been careful. She hadn’t cast a spell. She hadn’t even drawn on her magic. But it didn’t matter. The light had come. It may not have been her magic, but it had been magic all the same. 

A hush fell.

Then a new voice spoke. Calm. Measured and firm.

“Is there a problem here?”

The circle of onlookers parted slightly as a man stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered and grim in appearance, with a worn leather vest and a constable’s badge pinned to the front. His hand rested casually on the truncheon at his belt. His gaze swept the gathered faces before settling on Dana.

Nessa didn’t hesitate. “That one,” she said, “lit up like the dawn. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Dana lifted her chin. “It wasn’t me.”

“I saw a flash,” the blacksmith’s apprentice offered, uncertain. “Green, like… like a mage-lantern.”

“But did you see her cast it?” the constable asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

There was a short silence.

“No,” someone muttered.

“She didn’t say anything. No words,” someone else added.

“I—I don’t know,” said another. “She was just holding something.”

The constable turned back to Dana. “What were you holding?”

She glanced at the honey jar in her hand, still perfectly intact. Then at Alexander.

“It was him,” she said. “He pulled out a stone. And then the light came.”

All eyes turned to Alexander.

“It’s not mine—” he stammered, holding the stone up as if in proof or apology.

“Where’d you get it?” the constable asked.

Alexander hesitated. “I… someone gave it to me. A man. He said it was hers.”

“Liar,” Dana said through her teeth. Her magic thrummed dangerously, begging to be used, kept barely in check.

The constable exhaled through his nose. “Don’t much care where it came from,” he said. “But I do care about disturbances. Light like that, shouting in the streets, folk frightened…” He looked around the crowd, at the still-pointing Nessa, at the wary villagers.

Then he reached forward and clamped a hand on Dana’s arm.

“Best come with me, miss,” he said. “We’ll sort it out proper.”

Dana jerked away, but his grip was solid. She could feel the magic sparking under her skin like wildfire under a dry thatch roof.

Alexander took a step back, distancing himself from her. If she ever saw him again, she would flay him.

“I haven’t done anything,” she hissed as she was pulled tightly to the lawman’s side. 

“Then you can say as much in the hall,” the constable said flatly.

The crowd surged slightly as they moved, voices rising behind her. Some curious. Some suspicious. A few fearful. Dana felt herself swept forward, like a leaf in a rising stream, the constable steering her toward the village square.

She turned her head once, just once—

—and saw him.

Russet fur at the edge of the trees. A pair of golden eyes, wide and stricken.

Fox.

Here.

And even while she was being pulled away from him, she thrilled as she heard his voice– his voice –clear and bright in her mind: “Dana!” he said. “What’s happening?”

“They’ve accused me of being a witch, ” she said to him in her head, urgent and quick. “Alexander, a man from my village is here and he–” 

She cut herself off as she was jostled from her other side and then craned her neck to catch one more glimpse of him standing on the forest’s edge before she was pulled around a corner.  She saw him take one step forward, his ears up and alert. 

“Fox!” she called out in her mind. 

Then his voice in her head again; calm, strong. “Hold fast, love, ” he said. “ I’m coming.”

Notes:

A monstrous thanks to my betas!!!

Chapter 39

Summary:

Your commentsssssss out here giving me life!

“They’ve accused me of being a witch” she’d said, and he had felt the fear in her voice. 

Fox’s reaction was instant. His ears flattened, a vicious growl ripping through his throat. Though his hind leg still ached, he crouched low, ready to hurl himself at the crowd surging around Dana. 

But then—crack—the Overseer’s staff struck the ground nearby.

Fox turned sharply, snarling, teeth bared. The Overseer didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze fixed on the melee at the edge of town.

“Don’t do it, son,” he said evenly. “It will only hurt.”

And Fox knew, with a sick twist in his gut, that he was right.

He couldn’t reach her. Not now. Not like this.

She’d been accused—again—and it had to be that foul-smelling knave from her village, the one with the smug voice and eager eyes. And if Fox rushed in now, even if he could do something in this form, it would only confirm what they feared—that she was unnatural. A witch with a beast at her side.

No. He had to stay back until nightfall. 

Even if it killed him. 

“Fox!” Her voice rang in his head, clear and desperate.

He closed his eyes. The mark on his leg tingled with heat.

He sent the only thought he could hold steady long enough to give her:

“Hold fast, love. I’m coming.”

***

The constable’s grip tightened around her upper arm—not cruel, but firm enough to mean don’t run . Not that she could have. Not with half the market watching. Not with Nessa’s cry still ringing in her ears.

Fox was gone from view, but his voice still echoed in her thoughts—clear and certain: “Hold fast, love. I’m coming.”

Hold fast. 

Love. 

She tried to answer. Fox?

But the word never made it out. Her thoughts stretched outward, but her words did not, reaching blindly along the bond between them.

It thrummed in her blood, a quiet, golden thread of calm amid the storm.

But no words came. And none came back.

Maybe I have to see him, she thought. Maybe the bond only works when our eyes meet.

She didn’t know. There was so much she didn’t know.

Her heart pounded in her throat as the constable led her from the square, boots striking uneven stone. She felt the pressure of every stare, every whispered word, like needles beneath her skin. Someone tossed a clump of dried yarrow in her path. Old superstition. Protection against curses. Dana stepped over it without flinching.

They passed more shops, townspeople drifting out to watch the spectacle. On past the blacksmith’s, the tavern, and then the apothecary shop, with its green door, a spray of lavender drying in the windowsill.

Just as they were passing, the door burst open and her heart lurched in her chest. 

“Stop!” Maren’s voice cracked across the lane like a whip.

She and Silas rushed into the street, Maren still in her apron, her cheeks flushed with fury. Silas followed, slower but no less intense, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands ink-smudged and stained from tincture work.

“She’s done nothing wrong,” Maren said, planting herself in the constable’s path.

Bless her, Dana thought. Maren had no idea what she’d done or hadn’t done, but she was determined to defend her no matter what. 

“She’s frightened half the town,” he replied, trying to steer Dana around the woman. “There was a flash, a cry of witchcraft, and now we have half a dozen folk demanding answers.”

Silas’s eyes flicked to Dana’s. She saw the calculation there. The anger. But also the caution. He couldn’t push too hard, not here. Not in front of the watching crowd.

“Let us speak for her,” Silas said, taking a tone lower than his wife’s. “Please.”

Dana’s mouth was dry. She looked at Maren, then at Silas, her eyes wide.

The constable shook his head. “She can speak for herself. When the magistrate comes.”

“The magistrate!” Maren cried. “But that’s likely not to be for another week! Maybe two!”

The constable sighed heavily. “We’ll keep her comfortable Maren, you know that.” 

“But–” 

He marched on before Maren could finish her thought, pulling Dana onward, past the apothecary. Dana twisted for one last look at her friends—Maren’s eyes were fierce, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Silas looked furious in a way she hadn’t yet seen.

And then the jail came into view.

She had expected something harsh. Ugly. A stockade of rough timber or a squat stone cell with rusted bars.

Instead, it was strange. Beautiful, even. A tall building set into the side of a hill, with an arched entryway carved from warm red stone. Ivy climbed the façade like veins. One round tower rose from the back, capped with copper gone green with age. Windows spiraled up the turret—long and narrow, latticed in iron shaped like twisting vines.

It looked like it should house a bell or a scholar. Not prisoners.

Inside, it smelled of cool stone and rainwater. Lanterns cast amber light across the walls, and the floors were swept clean. A man behind a worn wooden desk looked up as they entered.

“This is your jail?” Dana asked. 

The constable shrugged. “Used to be a council archive,” he said. 

The constable turned from her and addressed the clerk. 

“Top cell,” he said. “The tower.”

The clerk hesitated. “You want her with the other prisoner?”

“There will be bars between them,” the constable said. “And he’s asleep. Likely he’ll leave the moment he wakes up.”

Dana’s stomach twisted. Being housed with another prisoner gave her an uncomfortable, creeping feeling. 

She said nothing as they crossed the tiled floor and mounted a narrow spiral staircase that wound up the inside of the tower. She counted the steps to steady her nerves. At the top, a rounded door with an iron latch. The constable opened it.

The room beyond was circular, lined in ancient brick, but split cleanly down the center by a set of iron bars. Two cells, side by side, mirrored each other like halves of a coin. Each had its own narrow bench built into the curved outer wall, worn smooth by time and use. Above, on Dana’s side, a single arched window let in light and air, its opening framed with a delicate grate of twisted iron—more ornamental than secure. A faint breeze threaded through it, stirring dust motes in the quiet air.

Just inside the chamber, to the right of the main entrance, stood a narrow door tucked into the curve of the wall. It was squat and iron-banded, fitted with a small eye-slit and a heavy bolt. It looked thick enough to stop a battering ram and hadn’t been opened in some time.

And in the corner, slumped against the curve of the wall—

A man.

His back was to her. Dark hair, tangled and curling at the nape. Broad shoulders hunched. His arms rested limp at his sides. One leg stretched out; the other bent.

He didn’t move.

“Been like that since last night,” the constable muttered. “Barely spoken.”

Dana’s throat tightened.

“What did he do?” she asked.

The constable shrugged. “Came down from the high road. Said he needed shelter. Collapsed on the clerk’s desk. Couldn’t give a name.”

Dana stepped slowly into the room.

The door closed behind her with a deep final click.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stood, listening—to the wind at the window, to the faint shift of the man’s breath.

Then she lowered herself to the bench. The honey jar was still in her hands.

She set it down gently beside her.

The stone walls glowed gold with the sun of high noon. 

The man didn’t stir.

Outside the window, the air shifted again. A hush. A soft flutter. The room was so quiet it grabbed her attention. 

Dana looked up.

A pale moth had landed on the grate, two black eyes upon its wings which shimmered like vellum veined in silver. It tilted its body toward her—watchful. Still.

She watched it as it seemed to survey the room and then crawled closer to where she sat, fluttering down to land gently next to her on the bench.

And then—softly, clearly—it spoke.

“Good afternoon,” said the moth, its voice coming from the place in her head which she thought solely reserved for Fox. “You must be Dana.”

Notes:

Endless, endless thanks to my betas, Anna, Becca and Kim!

Chapter 40

Fox paced just inside the treeline, his mood dark and restless. His limbs twitched with the need to move, to act, to do something .

The boy needs to calm himself, the Overseer thought, watching from beneath his tall hat. Before he does something stupid.

Before he could speak, the Raven dropped soundlessly onto his shoulder.

“A moment ago,” she said, her voice like flint, “I felt a dark call wash over me.” Her beak tilted toward the village.

“Aye,” the Overseer replied. “As did I.”

“Did your spell not hold?”

The Overseer looked to the cord tied around Fox’s neck, the smooth stone with his etching upon it bouncing against Fox’s chest as he trotted back and forth. 

“Nay ,” he said. “ It holds.” 

The Raven clucked her beak. “We must work quickly, then.” 

The Overseer sighed, ran a hand over his face. “Yes ,” he said. “ We must.”

He straightened and raised his voice. “Friends—gather now.”

The moth fluttered down to his other shoulder. The viper uncoiled herself from a patch of moss near his boot. Fox stilled, his pacing cut short. He turned toward the Overseer, eyes wide and pleading.

***

“I…am Dana,” she responded silently, eyelids fluttering in surprise. She ought to have kept her name to herself—but the shock of hearing the creature in her mind coupled with its friendly tone, had briefly disarmed her usual caution.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the moth said. 

“What…are you?” Dana asked, finding it jarring to converse with anyone other than Fox in her head. 

“I am a familiar ,” the moth answered politely. “Like your Fox.”

Dana inhaled in surprise. 

“I have traveled with him these last days, ” the moth went on. “He is eager to get back to you.” 

Dana was eager for that as well. 

“Is he…traveling with another witch? Or mage, perhaps?” 

“Nay, ” said the moth. “He travels only with a group of familiars who set out to help him. And you.” 

Dana blinked. “The raven. The man.” 

“Yes, ” said the moth. “ You ran.”

“I have been running,” Dana said sharply, her wonderment wearing off. “You hid yourselves. We were afraid.”

“The time for explanations wasn’t then. And it isn’t now.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked. 

“You don’t,” the moth said patiently. “But you bear the new mark of the bonded, as he does.” 

Dana looked down at the inside of her wrist. At the four curling lines. She touched it and could feel Fox on the other end, waiting, safe. What else could she do but accept this creature’s help? 

“I didn’t know I could speak to other witch’s familiars, ” Dana said. “I’ve barely figured out how to speak to my own.” 

“Oh, ” the moth said kindly. “ You can’t. Unless they have been freed. Like me.” 

“Freed?”  she asked, thinking of Fox, a queer feeling in her gut.

“That is a discussion for another time, my dear,” the moth said. “ We must work quickly.”

Dana looked to the sky outside the window. It would be hours still before Fox was a human again. 

“Is it…are they planning to do something to me?” Dana asked, swallowing thickly. The constable had been adamant that she must speak to the magistrate before she was able to clear her name. She wondered if there were various townspeople outside the jail with pitchforks and torches. If Nessa was out there drumming up the villagers into a frenzy, calling for her to be burned at the stake. 

She listened, but the town outside the window seemed quiet. 

“Not yet, ” the moth said. “ But time is of the essence. Fox says that you are only just coming into your power. What can you do? Have you any magic that might help you to leave this place? Any proficiencies in mechanical magic? Or perhaps you can magick the guards to sleep?” 

At this the moth flapped its wings several times. 

“I’m afraid not, ” Dana said. “But I have made friends with the local apothecary and his wife. He is a hedge mage. Perhaps he can help?”

The moth fluttered up into the air. 

“Let us see!” it said in her head. 

And then it was gone. 

***

The moment the moth returned—wings dull with fatigue, voice urgent in the Overseer’s mind.

“She is in the village, ” Moth said. “In the tower. She is safe for now—but afraid.”

The Overseer’s jaw tightened. “Let us go.”

He turned sharply and raised his staff, crystal gleaming faintly in the daylight. “Raven, Viper—come. Moth, guide us.”

The moth settled silently onto his shoulder. The viper, already curled around his wrist, flicked her tongue once in reply. Above, the raven lifted from the bough of a bare-limbed tree and circled high overhead.

Fox, who had been pacing just within the trees like a caged flame, stopped short. His ears swiveled. He turned those strange, human eyes toward the Overseer, defiant and taut with strain.

“I know what you’re going to say,” the Overseer began.

Fox growled low and took a step forward.

“You’ll draw attention,” the Overseer warned. “A fox in the market square—”

“Try and stop me,” Fox snapped, the words a rough bark of sound.

The Overseer let out a weary breath. “Very well. Stay to the alleys. Move like shadow. And for her sake—do not let yourself be seen.”

Fox dipped his head, once. Agreement.

Together, the strange procession moved toward the village. The moth clung lightly to the Overseer’s shoulder, silent and watchful as they made their way through the small back streets of the village, avoiding people where they could. The viper’s cool weight shifted with each step, coiled tight about his wrist. The raven flew above the rooftops, silent in the sky. And Fox moved in swift, fluid bursts through shadow and hedge, sticking to narrow lanes and slinking beneath carts and rails.

They reached the back entrance of the apothecary in minutes. The Overseer rapped twice, then once again—measured and soft, the sound of a man who had come for reason, not confrontation.

Fox darted up from the shadows just as the door creaked open.

It was Silas who stood there. His eyes narrowed at the tall man before him—grey robes, tall hat, staff glowing faintly, a moth resting on one shoulder. Then they dropped, widening slightly, at the sight of the fox at his heels.

“Stranger,” Silas said cautiously. “Can I help you?”

The Overseer inclined his head. “I’ve come regarding your guest.”

Silas tensed. His hand still rested on the edge of the door, keeping it half-closed.

“You offered her aid, and we have come to do the same,” the Overseer said. “I know what she is. And what you are.”

Silence stretched. Then Silas stepped back and opened the door.

“Come in.”

The interior of the apothecary was cool and dusky, thick with the smell of dried lavender, aged wood, and brine. Glass jars lined every shelf, some labeled, some not. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling beams. A mortar scraped faintly on the worktable.

Maren looked up as they entered. She straightened, eyes narrowing as she took in the man in grey. Then her gaze dropped to the fox at his feet.

Her mouth parted in surprise.

Fox met her gaze with gold-bright eyes.

“He’s hers,” the Overseer said simply. “And he has refused to be left behind.”

Maren nodded, looking at him closely. “She’s been anxious for you.” 

Fox’s fur rippled. 

Silas stepped forward, his gaze shifting as the raven hopped in behind the Overseer and flew up to perch on a beam overhead. From the Overseer’s wrist, the snake uncurled and popped her head out of his sleeve. Both Silas and Maren looked on in surprise and a little awe. 

“I am called the Overseer,” he continued, voice calm but firm. “And I come not to accuse, but to ask for your help. She is being held in the tower of the old council hall, yes? We need to get her out.”

Silas glanced to Maren, then shut the door behind them. It took him a moment to collect himself before he spoke.

“Yes,” he said. “They hold people in the old council tower. This village does not have a jail or dungeon. How do you know this?”

The Overseer nodded at the moth on his shoulder, who fluttered its wings. “My familiar spoke with her.”

“You’re a mage?” Silas asked, intrigued. 

“No,” the Overseer said simply. A look of confusion crossed Silas’s face, but before he could speak, his wife did. 

“She’s safe?” Maren asked quickly, caring less about the odd retinue before her and more about the girl who had been taken by the constable earlier that morning.

The Overseer hesitated. “For now. But fear will spread. It always does. We have little time.”

He didn’t speak of the real reason time was slipping through their fingers—the dark call. He needed to get Dana and Fox far from this place before the Dark Mage answered it. His witch had been a seer, her visions tangled and fragile as cobweb, but one truth had come through: fate was a fine, complicated weave. And he would do everything in his power to guide its thread toward salvation. Everything now rested on the shoulders of those two young lovers—the last hope of a dying world.

Silas frowned. “She’ll be in the upper cells. Iron bars. Only one way in—guarded.”

“I’ll get her out,” Fox growled, stepping forward. “Just point me to the door.”

The Overseer held up a hand to still him. “We must be wise about this.”

He turned to Silas. “How strong is her magic? Does she have the strength to escape on her own? Could she shrink herself, take another form, slip through the bars or window?”

Silas shook his head. “No. She’s growing stronger, yes—but her magic isn’t grounded yet, at least not well. She’s managed small spells. A healing, a few charms. Nothing more.”

Fox let out a frustrated huff, ears twitching back.

Then Silas paused. “There might be another way,” he said slowly. “There’s a clerk’s office just inside the tower door. I worked there as a boy—ran messages up and down. Behind the clerk’s desk, there’s a servants’ stair. Narrow. Forgotten. It leads to a scullery at the base of the tower. The back door opens onto the alley behind the shops.”

The Overseer’s eyes sharpened. “Could she use it?”

“If she can get through the lock on her cell. And the one to the clerk’s office, yes.”

“Could we get her a key?” Maren asked.

The raven gave a soft caw from the windowsill. “I could fly it to her.”

Silas was already shaking his head. “The keys are with the constable and the guards. There’s no way to get them without alerting them.”

Maren stepped forward, brow furrowed. “Then make them sick. Enough that they have to leave their posts. I can bring them a tincture.”

Silas hesitated. “Maren—”

“They’ll suspect us anyway,” she said. “This way we might actually help her.”

“You’d both be implicated,” the Overseer said gently. “When she’s gone.”

Silas fell silent. Then the Overseer spoke again. “Where is her grimoire?”

Silas gestured to the back of the shop. “Still on the altar. Where she left it.”

The Overseer crossed to the book, opened it, and paged through until he found what he was looking for. Two spells, both shimmering faintly upon the page. 

“She did not write these.”

“I believe they were written for her,” Silas said softly. “I myself am not powerful enough to see them.”

Tension drained from the Overseer’s face, replaced by resolve. He tore a page clean from the book.

Fox let out a furious growl. “That’s hers.”

“She’ll have it back,” the Overseer said firmly. “And it may be her only chance.”

He turned to the raven and opened the back door a crack so that the bird could slip out of it. “Take it to her. Land at the window. Tell her to look closely—and tell her to ground herself.”

The raven gave a soft click of assent, took the page gently in her talons, and lifted into the sky.

***

The flap of wings against iron startled her from her thoughts.

Dana looked up just as the raven landed lightly on the narrow window grate, a small strip of parchment rolled up and clutched in its talons. The bird’s dark eyes glittered as she tilted her head.

“I am a friend of the moth and of the fox. Take this,” came the raven’s words in her mind, the voice scratchy and high, where the moth’s had been low. “ It’s from your grimoire.”

The last time she’d seen Fox, they’d been trying to outrun this very creature, convinced it meant them harm. Now, she was relying on its kindness to save her. How strange. What—she wondered—had Fox been up to since they were separated? She was dying to hear his story.

Dana rose and gently pulled on the strip, fingers trembling slightly. She unrolled it—then frowned.

“This is… just a page about root uses. From the chapter on poultices.”

“Look again,” said the raven. “But this time, ground yourself first.”

Dana inhaled, then exhaled slowly. She placed her hand over her chest. Closed her eyes. Reached—gently—for the root of herself. The place her power lived.

When she opened her eyes again, the parchment shimmered faintly.

The letters began to shift.

Words surfaced from the page like ink rising through paper:

A Spell to Release a Lock
Gather these: ironwort, bone ash, an old key—unused or broken will do.
Speak the words aloud, holding the elements in hand. Let the key feel your breath. Let the lock remember motion.

Dana stared, wonder spreading across her face.

And then—a sound.

A sniff. Loud. Close.

She turned.

In the other cell, the man had stirred.

The Raven let out a low, almost reptilian trill.

“A curious creature,” she said warily.

Dana tore her eyes from him.

“What do you need to cast this spell?” the Raven asked.

Dana read off the ingredients in her mind.

The Raven gave a single nod, turned on the iron grate, and launched into the sky without another word.

As her wings vanished from view, the man in the other cell sat up, his wiry frame unfolding slowly.

He turned, his stringy, dark hair falling in front of an angular face. One she recognized.

A sharp pang struck Dana’s chest—like a breath yanked from her lungs.

He rubbed his eyes. Blinked.

Then his gaze found hers.

A slow smile crept across his face.

“Ah,” he said, voice curling like smoke. “Isn’t this interesting.”

He shifted, settling against the stone wall with deliberate ease.

“Last I saw you, your husband ,” he said the word in a mocking tone, “was just out of sight in the treeline. Is he now just outside the door?” he asked, his grin widening.

Dana’s throat went dry.

She knew him. The eyes. The voice.

The man from the woods. 

I got a blade, too, he’d said to her then. Want to see it?

Her hand drifted to where Bite usually hung, but there was no reassuring steel to grab onto, nothing between her and this blackguard but air and iron bars that, for the first time, didn’t seem nearly thick enough. 

Run out of her home and followed by she knew not what, that was still the first time she’d felt truly hunted.

Until now.

Behind bars or not—he was far too close.

Notes:

Huge thanks to Anna, Becca and Kim!

Chapter 41

Notes:

The real heroes here are my betas. I'm writing almost too fast for them to catch up but they're soldiering on and I love them for it!!

“You’re different from the last time I saw you,” the man in the other cell  said. His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “There’s something more to you,” he said, eyeing her up.

He tilted his head slightly, nostrils flaring as though scenting something just beyond reach.  “Light,” he murmured. His smile deepened, curdling into something hungry. “I can feel it.”

He stepped forward, coming to the bars that divided the room. Dana backed away without thinking, the backs of her knees bumping into the bench behind her.

There had been fear in the woods, yes—but this was worse. Not just the threat of violence, though that still lingered beneath his words. It was deeper now. Her stomach twisted. Her skin crawled.

“What are you?” she asked, the words pulled from her throat.

He gave a soft laugh. “I might ask you the same.”

He licked his lips, pale tongue darting out to wet them.

“I knew coming below the veil would pay off” he said thoughtfully. “I know power when I smell it.” He inhaled again, deeply, and smiled. “And yours is ripening.”

He leaned his forehead lightly against the bars. “The mark you wear,” he said, flitting his eyes to her wrist. “Is it a gift?” he asked, voice lower now. “Or a leash?”

Dana didn’t answer.

He studied her. “You don’t know, do you?”

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Why are you here?”

He gave a slow shrug. “Needed shelter, I did. I was weak.”

He rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly, as if even that movement pained him. “Too long on the high road. Too little to keep me going.”

Dana’s pulse quickened.

He smiled, lips thin and cold. “But luck brought me here. And now—well.”

His eyes moved to hers, and lingered. “There’s strength in you. Enough to draw from. Maybe even enough to feed.”

Dana tried to back away more, but there was nowhere else for her to go. The air between them felt heavier now, thick with something she didn’t have a name for.

“But not yet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Not quite. Still figuring it out aren’t you? You haven’t tapped all of the way in.”

Dana swallowed thickly. 

He pressed a hand to the bars, watching her as though weighing something.

“Still. You shine, girl. That’s rare these days.”

His smile deepened. “And rare things are… hard to resist.”

Dana’s stomach turned, as if a nest of snakes had come alive inside her, shifting and curling with unease.

At that moment, the raven appeared in the window, her wings stirring a gust of air as she landed lightly on the iron grate. Her feathers gleamed in the late afternoon sun, blue-black with a silken sheen. Tied to her leg was a small cloth parcel, bulging slightly.

Dana stepped toward her, but froze halfway.

The man in the opposite cell stood at the bars between them, too close, his gaze fixed not on her—but on the bird. His nostrils flared.

He hadn’t moved during the raven’s arrival, hadn’t spoken. But something in him had shifted. He stood straighter now. Head tilted. Breathing deeper.

The raven gave a low, almost reptilian click deep in her throat. Not a sound of fear—but unease.

She studied the man. “What is he?” she asked Dana. 

“I don’t know,” Dana replied. 

The raven ruffled her feathers. 

“Be quick,” she instructed sharply, without taking her eyes off the man. “There’s a wrongness in him. Like rot under stone.”

Dana nodded. She stepped to the grate, untied the parcel, and unfolded it. Inside were three things: a sprig of ironwort, brittle and fragrant; a pinch of bone ash folded into waxed paper; and a small, unused iron key, the bow smooth and unmarked.

She exhaled shakily.

“Are we planning a prison break?” the man finally spoke, watching her closely. “With your familiar?”

Dana looked up sharply.

“What fun,” he said, smiling with too many teeth. 

“Hurry,” the Raven said. “You need to get away from him.”

Dana swallowed, pulse quickening. She gathered the ingredients into her palm and closed her eyes. Reached inward. Downward. Let her awareness sink, like roots into soil. But it was difficult. She could feel the man staring at her hungrily, and something in him pulled uncomfortably at something in her. 

“I can’t, ” Dana said. “ He’s–” 

The raven hopped down off the sill of the window and opened her wings, swooping down to fly at the man on the other side of the bars, causing him to jump back. 

Dana felt suddenly lighter, and she could feel herself ground to the earth as her magic stirred. Slowly, then with sudden clarity. It gathered like a tide behind her ribs. Her skin felt too thin to contain it.

She gasped—but she didn’t stop. Not now. She held the ingredients tight and opened her eyes.

A sharp intake of breath echoed across the cell.

The man had gone still.

His eyes were on her now, no longer casual or amused.

Hungry.

“You shine, witch,” he said, voice low and shuddering with need. 

The raven let out a dry, metallic trill—something between a warning and a curse.

“Work fast,” she told Dana. “Whatever he is—he’s waking up.”

The key in Dana’s hand turned hot once more—and then the spell completed.

She gasped, her knees buckling slightly as the magic drained through her fingertips like spilled water. 

Something was pulling at her.

A thread of her power was unraveling, vanishing into the air—and she wasn’t the one directing it.

She staggered, catching herself on the cold stone wall.

Across from her, the man’s posture had changed entirely. No longer feigning casualness, no more sardonic smile.

He was breathing deeply now, like someone inhaling the scent of fresh bread after a famine. His pupils had dilated. His fingers curled around the bars.

“Dana,” the Raven said sharply, voice loud and urgent in her mind. “He’s feeding on you.”

Dana swayed, heart thudding wildly. Her limbs felt leaden. The hand still clutching the key trembled violently.

“What is he?” she asked the bird weakly.

“I don’t know.” The Raven’s voice was tight with alarm. “I’ve never felt something like this. Not mage. Not witch. Not familiar. Just—wrong.”

She fluttered hard, agitated.

Dana tried to move—but her legs wouldn’t respond properly. Her knees gave a wobble, and she had to grip the wall again just to keep from sinking to the floor. Her vision blurred around the edges.

She could feel it now, not just as a tug on her magic, but as a sickness behind her sternum. Like something was eating its way through her.

“I can’t—” she started.

“Listen to me,” the Raven said sharply. “I must go tell my companions what is happening. You must use the key. On this cell first. Then on the heavy door just there. It leads into an old clerk’s office. There’s a passage at the back. A hidden stairwell. Follow it down.”

Dana’s vision swam. She could hardly hear.

“Fox will be waiting at the bottom. But you have to move.”

The Raven launched herself from the windowsill, her wings kicking up dust as she vanished into the sky.

Dana was alone.

The man gave a long, slow exhale. His eyes had glazed over and he looked as though he was in his cups.

“Your magic,” he murmured, swaying a bit on his feet. “It’s beautiful.”

Dana clenched her jaw.

Every motion was a war. But she lifted the key with shaking fingers and turned toward the lock.

She stumbled into the bars of her cell, the metal biting into her shoulder.

The weight of her own body felt doubled.

She reached the keyhole. Fumbled once. Twice.

The metal clinked uselessly.

The man was swaying on his feet. “Oh,” he breathed. “Such a shine…”

She hissed through her teeth. Forced herself to steady the key. It grew warm in her hand again, gave a jolt of vibration and—

Click.

The bolt gave way.

Dana fell forward into the outer chamber.

She felt a thin, steady pull at her spine, as if the air behind her had grown greedy.

She didn’t dare look back.

Dana lurched to the door of the old clerk’s office, barely able to lift the key in her trembling hand. Her vision swam; the corridor tilted. She braced her weight against the frame, fingers fumbling for the lock. The key scraped against iron, missed the hole entirely, slipped from her grip—she caught it just before it hit the floor. Gritting her teeth, she tried again. Her arm felt like it belonged to someone else. She forced the key into place. It didn’t want to turn.

She thought of what the raven had told her: out her cell, into the old clerk’s office. Find the passage that leads to the stairs. Fox would be waiting at the bottom. 

Fox. She thought to call out to him, fumbling toward the bond with shaking, splintered will.

The mark on her wrist began to grow warm. She looked down. The mark was glowing, the key in her hand growing hot and then—

The key turned and the lock gave with a heavy clunk, echoing down the corridor like a warning bell. Dana gasped in relief, shouldered the thick wooden door open, and all but collapsed into the room beyond.

The air inside was stale, the light dim and dust-choked. Cobwebs trailed like curtains from the corners, and the scent of old ink, mildew, and something long-forgotten clung to every surface. Her eyes swept past shelves stacked with crumbling ledgers and shattered jars, toward the far wall where the raven had said the passage would be.

She lurched forward, letting the door fall shut behind her with a solid thud. Her hand fumbled for the latch—and found it. With the last of her strength, she dropped the bar into place. The iron bolt slid home with a satisfying scrape.

Instantly, she felt the change.

Something unseen withdrew its claws from her spine. She sagged, reeling, but whole. The invisible pull on her magic stopped. Her breath returned in small, shallow gasps. Her legs, still trembling, could hold her up again. Not well. But enough.

Behind her, in the chamber she had just fled, the man let out a cry of rage. It was wordless at first—a sound more animal than human, like the screech of an owl. Then came the words, sharp and furious, echoing through the stone walls.

"Help! Escape! Your prisoner has escaped!"

Dana froze.

Boots thundered on the stairs. Voices called out. The Constable. The guards.

Panic surged through her, rattling her already shaky nerves.

Turning from the door, she scanned the room, eyes still fogged with weariness. The window was grimy but the day’s dying light illuminated something. There. At the back wall—a shadowed recess, barely visible in the gloom. She stumbled toward it, crashing into the desk on the way, sending scrolls flying. Her fingers touched the wall. Wood.

Boards.

The passage the raven had spoken of.

But it was sealed.

She let out a soft sound, halfway between a sob and a curse. Pressed her palms to the boards. They were old. Dry and weak.

She braced herself. Pulled.

The first board resisted, groaning against the nails that held it. She gritted her teeth and yanked. It tore free with a sharp crack, sending a puff of dust into her face. She staggered back a step, coughing, the board slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor. She reached for the next, her grip unsteady. Her hands trembled, slick with sweat and weakness from the spell—and from whatever he’d drained out of her. Still, she pulled.

Another board. Then a third.

Behind her, the thick wooden door rattled. A voice shouted for keys. Someone else banged against it.

She turned to the gap she’d made—narrow, but maybe wide enough. She dropped to her knees, dress snagging on a jagged nail. It held fast. She cursed and jerked forward, the fabric tearing in a sudden rip up the side of her skirt.

She scrambled through.

The boards scraped her back. One caught at her braid. She ducked and twisted, and finally, finally, she fell forward onto stone.

A stairwell. Narrow. Curving.

The air was cooler here, and damp. Dana paused for a breath, Then another. Then she pressed her hand to the wall, steadying herself, and began to descend. Every step was a guess. It was dark in the passage, illuminated only by arrow slits cut into the thick walls emitting a weak, evanescent light.  Every turn might hide another figure. But the voices behind her were muffled now, fading.

She descended, her breath rasped in her chest. Her feet were clumsy on the stone, slipping more than once. But she didn’t stop.

The stair turned ever downwards.

And then she saw a faint glow.

She reached the scullery which was empty and dusty. Its once-used shelves sagged beneath forgotten kettles and cracked bowls. She unlatched the back door and shoved, its hinges creaking with disuse.

She pushed through.

The alley was quiet. Narrow. Lined in cobblestones slick with evening mist.The sky had turned the color of bruised violets. The sun, a sliver above the rooftops, was slipping away.

And then—

Movement just at the edge of her vision, a flash of autumn fur, then the wet popping sound of bones reshaping and—

Arms caught her.

Warm. Strong. Human. 

Fox.

He gasped as she collapsed into him, her body giving out completely now that it could. Her head dropped to his shoulder, breath shuddering.

He cradled her close, murmuring something she couldn’t hear.

Darkness folded in.

Drifting and filled with the relief of reunion, she let it take her.

Chapter 42

Notes:

Thank you so much for your comments! They honestly do keep me writing.

Fox barely felt the cold stone beneath his knees, the cobbles slick with mist.

She was in his arms—real, breathing. Finally. After everything. The distance. The fear. The longing he had felt in the marrow of his bones.

The bond between them pulsed, alive and electric—but there was something more, something deeper than magic. A pull from the very core of him, raw and unnameable.

Her head sagged against his shoulder, breath thin and shaky. Her skin was far too pale. Her body, limp.

“Dana? Dana!” His voice cracked open, hoarse with fear.

She didn’t stir.

Panic surged—hot and blinding—but he forced it down.

He cursed, clutching her even tighter to him. 

Her body was warm in his arms, but far too still. Her head had dropped against his shoulder, breath still shallow, skin chilled. He pressed his cheek to her hair and let out a low, quavering breath.

“You found me,” he whispered. “Now don’t you dare leave.”

He cradled her close, instinct overriding everything else. Her wrist brushed his chest—and he saw it.

The mark.

The soft, curling shape of the bonded brand, glowing faintly even through the grime on her skin.

His breath caught. A thousand questions bottlenecked in his throat, but none of them mattered now. She’d found him. She’d come back.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’re safe, now,” he whispered into her skin, trying to convince them both. “I swear it.”

A sharp beat of wings broke the silence. The raven landed lightly on the edge of a rain barrel just feet away, feathers sleek with mist and fury radiating off her in waves.

“She made it, ” the Raven said. “A lucky thing, with whatever that creature is still in the tower.”

Fox’s eyes snapped to hers. “It did this to her?”

The raven gave a grim nod. “It could do it to any of us, I think.”

Fox looked sharply toward the building. A window on the upper level still glowed faintly with the dying light. Cold crept down his spine like melting snow.

The wind shifted.

From the open doorway behind them, he felt it—a wrongness in the air. The trace of something that made his skin crawl, made his instincts bristle like a wild animal’s.

And Dana had been in there alone.

His hands curled into fists around her. The fury that rose was different than anything he remembered feeling before. This was deeper. Protective. Vicious.

Whoever had touched her—hurt her—he would end them.

But not now. Not yet. She needed help first.

Footsteps approached. 

He turned sharply toward the alley’s mouth, relaxing only when the silhouette resolved into the Overseer, robes sweeping through the mist, the moth resting on his shoulder.

“She’s alive,” Fox said, his voice hoarse.

The Overseer knelt beside them, eyes scanning Dana with quiet intensity. “And you,” he said, tone gentler now, “have returned.”

Fox didn’t answer. He looked down at her face, still slack with exhaustion. His thumb brushed the line of her jaw.

The Overseer turned, scanning the shadows, his hand gripping his staff. Above them, there were dull shouts from inside the tower, and the sharp click of hoofbeats coming up the lane on the tower’s other side. The crystal at the top of the Overseer’s staff glowed faintly green, its light beginning to slowly pulse. 

“Come,” he said. “Quickly. There is more danger here than you know.”

Fox nodded tightly. He rose with Dana in his arms, cradling her as if she were made of glass. She didn’t stir.

“She needs help,” he said, falling in beside the Overseer who was walking quickly through the alley, looking furtively around them, his expression hard. 

“Yes,” the man said grimly. 

They moved swiftly down a narrow back lane, long strides devouring the distance, despite Fox's limp. At a sharp left turn, the Overseer reached the apothecary’s back door and shoved it open without pause, Fox close on his heels.

Silas and his wife jumped, looking at Fox with startled expressions. When their eyes fell to Dana, the apothecary let out a low, harsh curse. 

“Who are you?” he asked sharply. “What have you done to her?”

“This is Fox, her familiar,” the Overseer explained. “Her injuries were not his doing.”

Silas blinked. Once. Twice. “Her… familiar?”

“Please,” Fox said hoarsely, barely able to get the word out. “Help her.”

That snapped them both into motion.

“Gods,” Silas muttered. “Here. Lay her here.”

He swept the contents of a long worktable onto the floor with one quick motion, jars and vials clattering and rolling as he cleared the space.

Fox lowered Dana gently to the tabletop, carefully laying her head, which lolled unsteadily.

Behind them, the raven swooped into the room and perched on a beam overhead. The Overseer moved to the door and closed it firmly, throwing the latch. He turned to the apothecary, who had stepped up to the table upon which Dana lay and was gently peeling up her eyelids, examining her pupils. Fox could see they were blown black, her sclera shot through with red. 

“What protective charms have you?” the Overseer said urgently, turning from the door. “What spells? Any that could shield this building from magical eyes?”

Silas’s mouth dropped open a little and he looked helplessly toward his wife, who was busily trying to tidy up the items that had crashed to the floor. 

“I am but a hedge mage, sir,” the apothecary said. “I make healing draughts and can perform small magicks. I think I can help Dana. But I have nothing in my repertoire so powerful as what you’re asking for.”

The Overseer turned to the altar upon which the apothecary’s spell book sat, Dana’s nestled up beside it. He began riffling through them both, his hand and eyes lingering on Dana's.

“You may not be able to cast a charm like that, but do you have one? A spell passed down?”

“I have nothing, sir,” Silas said, turning his attention back to Dana, who looked paler than she had when they entered. Fox could see beads of sweat forming along her brow. “Maren, fetch me the Valerian tonic. Quickly.” 

But Maren merely stood where she was, several bottles clutched in her arms from where she had been cleaning up the mess on the floor, a scroll hanging limply from her hand. 

“Maren?” Silas said, his brow creasing. 

“My mother’s grimoire,” Maren said softly. 

“What?” asked her husband. 

Maren cleared her throat and spoke with more force. “My mother’s grimoire.”

The Overseer took a step towards her, and she looked up at him. 

“My mother was a sea witch,” she said. “I have her grimoire. There are powerful spells in it. Several protective ones.”

The Overseer looked at the crystal atop his staff which was pulsing more quickly now, the glow growing brighter. 

“Fetch it,” he said. “Now.” 

While Maren hurried to the other end of the room to get what the Overseer asked for, Fox looked down at Dana and gently wiped the sweat forming on her brow, tenderly tucking the curls of hair that had escaped her braid behind the seashell curve of her ear. Her skin was hot to the touch. 

The apothecary had gone to a shelf and was coming back with a small vial. 

“Lift up her head for me,” he said to Fox, “this should help cool her.”

Fox put his arm around the back of Dana’s neck and lifted it gently. “Can she swallow?” he asked Silas. 

The man put the vial to Dana’s lips and tipped it in. “Let us see,” he said softly.

Dana’s eyelids fluttered and her throat moved in a slow, instinctive swallow. 

“Good,” Silas said, giving Fox a tight smile as he lowered her head tenderly back onto the table. 

Everyone’s attention was pulled when Maren set her mother’s grimoire onto the altar with a loud thump. The book was thick and salt-warped, its cover the deep green of kelp after a storm. Damp-stained leather clung to its spine, and its edges were uneven like sea grass tugged by tides. A length of twine, knotted with shells and bits of coral, kept it bound shut. Even now, long dry, it carried the faint tang of brine.

The Overseer wasted no time, opening up the tome and flipping quickly through the pages. The black viper slithered her way out of his sleeve and curled up next to the book, her tongue darting out to taste the air. 

A moment later, her body rose up higher off the table and Fox heard her say, “There!”

The Overseer stopped flipping and laid the book open flat. 

“Can you cast it?” He turned to look at Maren. 

Maren shook her head sadly. “I did not inherit her power.”

The Overseer turned his attention to Silas. 

The apothecary looked grim. “I have never been able to cast a single spell from that book,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “Can’t you?” he asked. 

The Overseer’s already stern face frowned. “Despite appearances," he said. "I am no mage. The magic I have does not work the way the rest of yours does.”

The man then turned in his direction, but Fox barely noticed. He had Dana’s hand in his own, the mark on her wrist catching the light—his mark, too. He ran his thumb over it, as if he could anchor her with touch alone. His world had narrowed to this: her skin, too pale; her breathing, too shallow. Nothing else mattered.

The Overseer moved forward and put his hand on Fox’s shoulder. 

Fox looked up at him. The older man paused and seemed to consider something. 

“It’s all right,” the moth said from the Overseer’s shoulder. “Go on.”

The Overseer sighed and then spoke. His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. 

“You’ll have to do it,” he said, his eyes looking into Fox’s with an intensity that could not be ignored. 

Fox blinked several times, dread spreading out from his stomach, bubbling through the veins of his chest until it forced the croaky voice from his throat: “What? ”

The older man gestured to the grimoire lying open on the altar. Its pages shimmered faintly in the low light, ink shifting as if stirred by an unseen current.

“The spell,” the Overseer said. “It requires a mage’s hand.”

Fox stared at him. “I’m not—” He stopped. Shook his head. “I’m no mage.”

Above them, the raven trilled a string of dry clicks from the rafters, like bones tumbling in a wooden bowl.

“You are,” said the Overseer gently, as if saying it any louder might break a tenuous détente. “You’ve only forgotten.”

Fox recoiled in shock and disbelief. Actually recoiled , like he’d been slapped. 

“Come,” the Overseer instructed, his hand sweeping toward the sea witch’s grimoire. “We have little time.”

Fox felt the ground tilt beneath him.

“No,” he said, more forcefully this time. “I’m bonded. I’m a familiar. I belong to—”

He broke off, the words collapsing on his tongue.

The Overseer leaned closer. His voice was steady. Unyielding.

“That is not all you are.”

Fox stared at him, the truth of his words pressing into the cracks of his memory, into the hollow places long since sealed shut.

The candles flickered. The ink in the sea grimoire rippled.

And somewhere deep in his chest, something old and forgotten stirred.

Notes:

This was honestly the most fun chapter to write up to now, and my betas made it even better. They deserve all the thanks in the world.

Chapter 43

Notes:

A beast. Undying gratitude to Becca, Anna and Kim.

Fox felt the stirring in his blood, though it felt capped by something, held back. A lid thrown over a pot. Still. It was there. The truth of the Overseer’s words was like a fault line under his feet—quiet now but ready to crack open. 

His thoughts were a swirling mass of wonder, disbelief, denial, fear, but he pushed all of that down. He needed to be strong for Dana. He needed to have a clear head. Protect, came that undeniable instinct in his chest. He was determined to listen to it. 

He had been crouching next to the work table upon which Dana lay, but now, he stood, the Overseer’s hand still on his shoulder. 

“This spell,” Fox asked. “What is it for? What are we protecting ourselves from? That thing in the tower? The thing that did this to Dana?” He looked down at her and ran his fingers lightly through the hair at her brow. 

“That,” the Overseer answered, his voice tight. “And more.”

“Come. Now,” he went on, squeezing Fox’s shoulder. 

Fox rose, reluctantly stepping away from Dana’s side. 

“What’s ‘more?’” he asked as he walked to the old grimoire. 

Up in the rafters, the raven flapped her wings. 

“I’ll tell you,” the Overseer said. “After.”

A snarl curled his lip, but then the crystal atop the Overseer’s staff throbbed—green light flashing like a racing heartbeat. The room shifted. Something heavy pressed on the air.

Fox cursed, giving Dana one last look before he turned to the book. The old grimoire lay open on the altar, its pages rippling slightly though there was no wind. Strange symbols moved faintly beneath the words, as if inked in something half-alive.

He reached toward it—and the page pulsed beneath his fingertips.

Not in welcome. Not in warning.

Recognition. Magic recognizing magic. 

A tremor ran through him, the hairs on his arms rising as his pulse quickened.

Fox stared at the open grimoire. The ink shimmered faintly, like the spell was waiting to be cast, and something inside him—long buried—rose to meet it.

His eyes tracked the lines. The words were plain, but they resonated with familiarity and weight,  as if each one struck a chord that had always been waiting to sound.

He read them aloud.

“Let ward be drawn where harm might fall.
Let bone and breath and will make wall.
By root and ash, let power bend—
Hold fast. Protect. Defend.”

As he spoke, the room shifted. Not visibly, but he could feel it in his bones—the way the spell settled into him, the way it answered.

One hand stayed braced on the page. The other lifted, palm forward, fingers trembling slightly. Threads of light began to rise from the grimoire, curling upward like seafoam drawn into wind.

Behind him, he could hear Maren and Silas at work—glass clinking, herbs ground to dust. Dana’s breath, soft and fragile. But he couldn’t look. The spell was wending its way inside him now, threading itself through his limbs, cold and sharp and clear. His skin prickled.

The crystal in the Overseer’s staff pulsed again, brighter this time—urgent. The air thickened. The walls around them seemed to ripple, and a verging, penultimate tension drew tight across the room, like a bowstring pulled to the chin. 

Fox gritted his teeth and spoke the final line again, louder this time.

“Hold fast. Protect. Defend!”

The magic surged, fast and forceful, like floodwaters battering a dam. But something inside him held it back. Whatever had blocked his power—memory or something else—rose again now, trying to seal him off, to shut the door just as it opened.

The spell faltered.

He clenched his jaw. No. If that thing was coming after Dana, he wouldn’t let it finish her off. 

He pushed—but the barrier clamped down harder, and pain flared behind his ribs. He gasped, wincing, as fear surged up to meet it. If he failed, it wouldn’t just cost him. It could cost Dana her life.

Then—a spark. Not in the air. In his wrist. The bond-mark flared with warmth. The magic shifted, flowing freely now. Whatever was blocking it had slackened. He took a deep breath, about to repeat the incantation, but there was a cry of alarm from behind him. 

Dana groaned, a harrowing, desperate sound. The urge to turn around was overwhelming, but he didn’t dare, not when the magic was finally coursing through him, unbound.

“Stop!” Silas called out. 

“Don’t stop!” instructed the Overseer, staring at the crystal atop his staff. 

Fox’s instincts screamed to stop—but then the Overseer’s hand rose, steadying his.

A rush of magic flowed through him, but not his own. He could feel it purling off of the Overseer in a steady flow. The texture of it was different, old and gentle and achingly familiar.

Before he could contemplate the feeling, the warmth in his bond-brand cooled and the sigils in front of him flared, rising like a constellation from the page. The floor beneath his boots hummed—low, then louder, until the stone itself seemed to sing. A breath of wind moved through the room, lifting the edges of cloth and parchment. At the doors, the wood groaned. Then—

BOOM.

A shockwave rippled outward.

Wards bloomed across the windows and doorframes—pale green and flickering, like fireflies suspended midair. Where the light gathered, it looked woven, like threads of energy threaded into a tight lattice. The magic formed a barrier—not solid, but living—drawn from spellwork older than words, meant to keep danger out. 

The pressure in the room lifted.

Fox gasped, reeling back from the book. The Overseer’s hand dropped from where it had been touching his own.

“It’s done,” the Overseer panted. He sounded relieved, though he seemed to wilt slightly under his hat.

Fox wheeled around, his eyes landing on Dana, his heart in his throat. 

“Is she—?” 

“She’s all right.” Silas nodded at him, a little breathless. “I think… I think you were drawing magic from her,” he said. “Magic she doesn’t have to give.” 

Fox felt his stomach lurch in horror. 

“It stopped,” the apothecary assured him. “When he…”

Fox then turned on the Overseer. 

“What was that?” he asked. “What did you do? I thought you said you weren’t a mage!”

“I am not,” the Overseer said simply, pulling off his hat to wipe sweat off of his bald pate. 

“Then what did I feel coming off of you?” Fox demanded. 

“Magic given to me by my own witch. Passed to me when she died.” 

“And you can wield her power?”

The Overseer shook his head sadly. “Only to help other familiars. You are both mage and familiar. A unique combination.”

Fox had other pressing questions, but as he spoke, the raven swooped down from the rafters to land next to the Overseer, her feathers ruffling in agitation. The viper slithered over as well, darting her tongue out to taste at the air near his hand, as if checking for injury or imbalance. The moth, still riding on his shoulder, flitted her wings and flew over to land on Fox’s.

“It is finite, this magic she imparted to him, ” Moth explained. “ He cannot draw on the magic from the land like living mages and witches. What he has lives in him. When he gives it away to help our kind, his stores grow lighter. What he gave you was a gift that cannot be restored. Or repaid.”

Fox swallowed thickly. Opened his mouth to say something—to apologize maybe or give his thanks, but at that moment, Dana stirred. 

A breath caught in her throat. Her eyes fluttered. Her lips parted as though surfacing from deep water.

“Fox?” she rasped.

He was beside her in an instant, the moth flitting back to the Overseer.

“I’m here,” he whispered, leaning down and pressing his forehead to hers. “You made it.”

She blinked up at him, dazed. “What happened?”

In his mind’s eye, he saw her stumble out of the old scullery door behind the town’s prison, weak as a newborn fawn—pale and frightened. The sight had cleaved him in two. 

“What do you remember?” 

She swallowed with difficulty, and tried to sit up. Fox and Maren rushed to help her. 

“Alexander,” she said, bringing a hand to her head as if it was in pain. “He was here, in this village. There was a stone, like the one I dropped behind the waterfall.” Fox reached up and tugged on the cord around his neck, pulling it off and holding it up. 

“Yes,” she winced. “But it didn’t have the etching on it. There was a flash. A bright flash. Nessa was there. Saw it. And accused me of being a witch. Publicly.” At this she looked to Silas and Maren, who looked alternately aghast and furious. “The constable took me to the jail and…” For a moment, it looked as though she might vomit, but she shook her head slightly and swallowed. “There was a man there. He…” 

She looked a little lost and the raven hopped forward, flapped once until she was sitting on the work table next to her. 

“Fed on your power, he did,” said the raven. 

Silas’s eyes widened. “What could do such a thing?”

No one in the room had an answer, though everyone’s eyes drifted to the Overseer, who, looking a little pale, replaced his hat upon his head. 

“Something new,” he said with finality. 

Fox’s voice was quiet. Shameful. “I just drew from her, too.”

“That,” said the Overseer, “was the spell. Your mark. The bond.”

“I stole her power?” Fox asked. 

“No,” the Overseer said. “Borrowed. You weren’t feeding on her. Her power was supplementing yours. Your powers… They are tangled, now.”

Dana’s brow furrowed. “How do you know?” she asked. “How do you know so much about my spell?” 

“Because,” the Overseer said. “Before the spell was yours, it was hers. My witch. She created it.”

Dana blinked several times. The room was quiet for a moment. 

“You said there was something else after us?” said Fox. 

“Someone,” the Overseer clarified. 

Fox watched the light fade from Dana’s expression, her face turning ashen.

“The flash you saw from the stone held by your Alexander,” the Overseer said. 

“He’s not my Alexander,” Dana hissed, weak though she was. Silas, coming over from a nearby table, pressed a freshly made tonic into her hand and urged her to drink. 

The Overseer nodded to her deferentially. 

“I believe he held a calling stone,” the man went on. 

“Like this?” Fox asked, lifting the stone on the thong once more. 

“Not quite,” the Overseer said. “The one you carry has been altered. By me.”

Fox tilted his head, vulpine-like. 

“The Dark Mage has left them all over the land beyond the veil. I have found and altered as many as I can.”

“The Dark Mage?” Fox asked. 

“There are two kinds of magic in this world. Dark. And Light.”

Fox looked at Dana. She was pure Light. He’d known since the moment the moth had mentioned the two schools of magic to him as he limped his way back to his witch. There was something about her magic—something steady, radiant and whole. He didn’t have a name for it, but he’d felt it. When her spell reached him in the woods. When the bond took hold. Even now, faintly, in the air between them. It was like standing in sunlight after too long in shadow. 

“And this mage,” Dana asked. “He’s of the Dark? And he’s coming here?”

The Overseer nodded gravely. 

“What does he want with me?” she asked. 

“Your end,” said the Overseer. 

Fox’s hands curled into tight fists, but Maren put up a gentling hand, calling everyone’s attention to her. 

“Silas needs to perform a small healing spell,” she said. “And then Dana needs rest. You’ve bought her some time,” Maren said, nodding toward the wards that shimmered over the doorways. “Let her use it to regain her strength.”

There seemed to be a collective agreement, all of the beings in the room falling silent. Fox lifted Dana’s hand to his lips, pressing a long kiss there, unable to help himself after almost losing her. 

Where their skin met, there was a feeling of the barest rush of sparks. Their eyes connected and tension of a different sort filled the air. It seemed to tighten, the reality of their reunion blazing with promise—with the ache of nearness. His breath caught, and hers shivered out, shallow and slow. The world fell away, all of it, until there was only the place where their skin touched. 

Maren cleared her throat. “We’ll give you two some time,” she said. “But first, Silas needs to heal her.” She turned to the rest of their odd collective: “Let us give him some space to work,” she said, spreading her arms wide and ushering everyone but Fox and the apothecary into the outer room of the shop, the viper threading her way loosely up the Overseer’s wrist, the raven hopping up to swoop over their heads and through the flap that separated the workshop from the front room. 

Silas moved to the table above Dana’s head and closed his eyes, raising his hands as if in prayer. He recited a short incantation and Fox could feel the magic he’d summoned flow into the room and surround Dana. 

The apothecary nodded toward the tonic he’d pressed into her free hand. “Finish it,” he said. “And then,” he went on, holding a packet of herbs out to her. “I want you to breathe in the smoke of this. You’ll set the mixture aflame, extinguish it and then waft the smoke over you. Now that we know more about what happened to you, I can better target your treatment. The smoke will help restore your magic.”

Fox reluctantly let go of her hand so that she could reach out and take the packet from Silas. 

The older man smiled at her gently. “Let us make you more comfortable, shall we?” he said, and moved to a low cupboard, pulling out a narrow bedroll, which he unrolled along the wall near the back door, where the wards still glowed upon the wood. 

“When you’re finished,” he said, nodding toward the bedding. “Rest.” 

He then nodded at Fox and disappeared through the curtain and into the shop. 

Dana caught his eye and they exchanged a look–a flicker of knowing, of want. A confirmation of everything unspoken. 

He wanted nothing more in that moment than to sweep Dana into his arms, but restoring her health was paramount. 

When she moved to gingerly swing her legs over the side of the worktable, Fox took the packet from her hands and looped his arm around her. 

“Let me help you,” he said, and she gave him a smile, weak, but grateful. Her color had improved since Silas spoke his spell over her, and Fox walked with her over to the altar, his hand on her elbow. 

As she approached the raised table, she gave a small sound of startled appreciation, running her hand along the sea witch’s grimoire. The words on the page seemed to rise up to meet her touch and then sink back to the page like the very swell of the sea. 

“This,” she said. “Is beautiful.” 

“It is,” Fox agreed, and then handed her the packet of herbs Silas had given them. 

Dana closed the book and pushed it aside, pulling a small wooden bowl toward herself. It was a pretty thing, carved with ivy and sunbursts and hardened with tallow. 

She shook out the herb mixture that the apothecary had given her and grabbed a stubby candle, blowing gently on the blackened wick until it caught flame. 

Wonder bloomed inside him. Despite being drained by the creature in the jail, in the short amount of time they’d been separated, Dana had grown into her magic by leaps and bounds. Even her movements, which had been clumsy and self-conscious before, now flowed with a confident precision conveying a new and evolving strength. He was struck dumb. 

He took a small step back, giving her room to work, and watched in quiet awe as she lowered the flame to the bowl, set the herbs to smolder, and then gently extinguished the flame. The smoke that rose up smelled of acrid pine and winter, and she fanned the smoke gently toward herself and let it waft over her shoulders to sink unnaturally to the ground behind her. 

When the smoke began to dissipate, Dana stood taller, inhaled deeply and then turned to him. 

There was a brightness to her now, a pale glow that hadn’t been there before that seemed to shimmer around her like an aura. And her eyes, blue and liquid as a shallow sea, held a shine he had never before seen. 

The urge to kneel before her in awe was almost overwhelming. 

“You’re coming into your own,” he whispered, for the first time wondering if he’d be left behind. 

She offered him a faint smile and then reached out and took his hand, turning them so that the bonded mark on their wrists was pointing up. Where their skin touched, a tingling warmth began to stir, and their marks began to glow under their skin. 

“Not without you,” she whispered back, as if she heard his thoughts, stepping up to him, their hands still linked. When she looked up at him, there was a brief moment of shyness that passed between them, and then…

And then.

She lifted herself up onto her toes and pressed her lips into his.

Chapter 44

Notes:

As always, your comments sustain me and keep me writing!

​​His lips were warm. Known. Like memory, like magic—something she had carried in her bones but hadn’t allowed herself to name. The kiss was gentle at first, the kind that held its breath, testing the shape of things now that they had changed. But when his hand rose to her cheek and she felt the tremble in his fingertips, she melted into him.

The world stilled.

There was no village outside these walls. No fear. No vipers or crows, no salves or sigils or lingering pain. Just the breath between them, the singing in her ears, the certainty of his hands. The bond that shimmered beneath their skin pulsed again, and this time she felt it—magic humming low and sure between them, not insistent, not demanding. Just there . Steady. Real.

He was real.

She had never really done this before though some village boys had tried—Alexander after a fair day, the sourness of cider on his breath leaning in to catch her by surprise. But where before she’d felt revulsion, here she only felt pull . The skim of his lips over hers an inevitability set into motion when the earth was forged.

And then the warm, slow slide of his tongue begging entrance into her mouth—tentative, reverent. Dana parted her lips, breath catching as the kiss deepened. There was no hesitation now. No nerves, no fear. Just the heat of him, the way he fit against her, the way she opened under his touch.

She let go of his hand to fist the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself as her knees softened, threatening to give out beneath her. Every inch of her felt alive—her skin buzzing where he touched her, her heart thudding hard against the cage of her ribs. She had imagined this, in flickers and stolen dreams, but the reality of it eclipsed all imagining. He wasn’t a fantasy. He wasn’t a hope.

He was here. Flesh and breath and want.

And he wanted her.

Fox’s hand curled around her waist, pulling her flush against him, his mouth trailing from her lips to the line of her jaw, then lower, to the tender place beneath her ear. She gasped, her whole body arcing forward into his.

The mark on her wrist glowed brighter, heat building at the point where their bond shimmered just beneath the skin. His thumb brushed it, and the sensation lanced through her like lightning—sharp, clean, holy. She made a soft sound, one she didn’t know she could make, and he answered it with a low groan against her throat.

“Dana,” he whispered, as if her name was both prayer and plea.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him, her face flushed, lips swollen, breath ragged. His eyes were wild—bright and dark all at once, as if every part of him was caught between restraint and hunger. 

He looked as though he wanted to say something, do something, but was holding himself back. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said softly.

“I’m afraid of me,” Fox admitted. His voice was hoarse, shaking with things he hadn’t yet said.

She reached up to run her fingers through the thick, dark weft of his hair, wanting to pull him down to her again, when he pressed his hand to hers, stilling her movement.

“You need rest,” he rasped. “I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Dana answered, but pulled back from him just enough. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers and their eyes slipped closed. 

The solid heat of him in front of her, the quiet weight of his presence. She couldn’t help thinking again: real .

“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered. Her voice was raw around the edges, low and aching.

“I thought the same,” Fox murmured. “Every second apart from you…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Everything had changed since that night in Highmere—since they’d leapt the waterfall, side by side, into the unknown. For so long, Dana had believed herself alone in the world. An orphan. Unclaimed. It hadn’t occurred to her that family could be something you found, not something you were born into. That it could be built in moments of shared danger, quiet loyalty, and the kind of love that didn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

That truth had crept up on her, slow and quiet, until it crashed down like a wave the first time she found herself without him. The silence was too loud. The emptiness, too sharp. She missed him with an ache so fierce it left her breathless—not just his presence, but the way he looked at her, listened to her, believed in her.

That was when it struck her—not with drama, but with clarity. She hadn’t just come to rely on him. Her heart had shifted, quietly and irrevocably, and he’d become something else entirely. Something new. Metamorphosis borne from need, from want, from love.

Dana opened her eyes, and the storm she’d held at bay since the constable’s hands first closed around her arms threatened to rise again—terror, fury, shame—all of it… couldn’t touch her here. Not with him like this. Not with the warmth of his arms wrapped around her, the mark glowing faintly between them.

She reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw, his cheek, just to feel the solidness of him. To confirm again that he was not some phantom summoned by longing. “You’re really here,” she said.

“I’ll never be far again,” he promised.

She believed him. She wanted to. And yet…

Dana stepped back, just slightly, enough to look him over. He looked tired. More than tired. There were dark hollows beneath his eyes and a tightness in his shoulders that she hadn’t often seen.

She glanced up at the firefly light of the magical weave above the door, at the shape of the magic. Familiar.

“You cast this spell,” she said. “The one protecting this place.” It wasn’t a question. She could feel it in the room, the way the air seemed gentler now, more like him, the wards holding strong at the corners. Tender. Strong. Fox. 

He nodded.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” she said. 

“I didn’t either.” His eyes were sea-storm green in the candle light, and his lips were glistening from their kiss. 

“I have so many questions,” she said, her voice soft and quiet.

“So do I,” he whispered.

They stood like that for a beat longer, the moment quiet and close. But her body had begun to feel the weight of all she’d been through, the magical drain, the haze of smoke still lingering in her senses. She swayed slightly, and Fox reached for her.

“Bedroll,” he said. “Now.”

Dana laughed softly, not protesting as he led her toward it, his hand steady at her elbow, her eyes casting up once again at the wards over the doors. As she sat, as the feeling that she couldn’t be touched while in the embrace of his arms faded, and reality crashed down. She looked up at him.

“The Dark Mage,” she said. “The man in the jail. Fox, how are we going to—”

He knelt down next to her and put a finger gently over her lips, silencing her.

“You need to rest.”

“But—”

“Dana.” The way he said her name gentled the storm inside her. It was firm, but full of warmth—reverent, almost. Like a rope tied to a boat, pulling it back from the current.

“We’ll face it,” he said. “But not right now.”

She searched his eyes, saw the same fear, the same fire, the same unshakable devotion she felt echoing in her own chest. Slowly, she nodded.

“Stay with me?” 

His answer was a quiet nod as he lowered himself beside the head of the bedroll, wincing slightly, legs stretched out, shoulders resting against the wall. Dana lay down with a soft sigh, the narrow bedding pressing gently against her spine as she turned and rested her head on his thigh. Exhaustion bloomed in her bones, heavy and insistent, and she let it come, letting the tension drain from her at last.

His arm curled around her, slow and sure, his hand—big enough to span almost the whole of it—resting across her waist. It was warm and steady and his fingers moved in idle, soothing patterns over the bodice of her dress.

“You’ve ripped your skirt,” Fox murmured, voice low and rough against the quiet.

She glanced down. The tear from the loose nail in the clerk’s office had split the fabric clean through, leaving a long strip of her skirt hanging loose. From the top of her boot to the middle of her thigh, pale skin was bared to the firelight.

She heard Fox swallow thickly.

When she looked up, his eyes had gone dark with something he didn’t try to hide.

“Better my skirt than my skin,” she murmured, though her voice wavered just slightly.

“Yes,” he said, gaze lifting to meet hers. “A stroke of luck.”

A beat passed, charged and wordless. The fire crackled in the hearth. Somewhere in the shop beyond, a quiet murmur of voices. But here, in the stillness between them, something more dangerous than silence had taken root.

She didn’t move, didn’t dare. But she felt it again—that low thrum from her sacrum, the echo of their bond and everything beneath it. Not just magic. Not just fate.

Want.

Fox’s hand, still resting along her side, tightened, just slightly, his fingers curling against her ribs like he meant to anchor himself there. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t trust what might come out.

Dana’s breath shivered out.

“I should probably… fix it,” she said, tugging gently at the torn fabric, but her voice lacked any real conviction.

Fox raised an eyebrow, and something wry ghosted across his face. “You’ll sew that up right now, will you?”

She smiled—small, crooked, tired. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, his gaze lingering just a second too long before he turned his eyes to the fire.

She let herself watch him in return—his tousled hair, the faint smudge of exhaustion under his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell with the effort of staying composed.

She didn’t feel shy anymore.

Not with him.

She reached out with her hand and laced her fingers with his other hand, and this time when her eyes drifted shut, it wasn’t just sleep that drew her there.

It was safety.

It was him.

***

Maren had drawn the curtains across the front of the shop and the space felt cloistered and dim. There had been commotion on the lane outside when they first trundled out of the workroom—shouts from a few men and the sound of several horses trotting quickly by. The Overseer had pulled a corner of the curtain aside to look: the constable and several of his men. But things had died down and the street outside was quiet. 

Maren and Silas had settled onto stools behind the service countertop and the latter was dozing where he sat, head dropped down, soft snuffly snores emanating from him. The familiars were dozing as well, the raven treating the rafters at the top of the apothecary as a rookery, the moth beside her, the viper curled on the table.

The Overseer would not rest. Not tonight. Not until they were all safely away from the village and the Dark Mage, and whatever that creature was that had fed on Dana. The raven’s description of what it had done, and the clear physical toll it had taken on her was a terrifying prospect. One he had not foreseen. One his witch had not foreseen. And that was rare. 

He had every confidence in the magic of the protection spell—he had felt its power when he had helped Fox to cast it—but they could not tarry. The sooner they were away from this place, the better. He hoped Dana was resting well. 

He chanced another peek outside and then turned back to the room, not sure where to place his restlessness. Maren, her eyes sleepy, but her mouth curving up in a friendly smile, caught his own. 

“Tell me about your witch,” she said curiously. “She must have been formidable to do what she did. To pass her power on to you. When my mother died, I had hoped she could do the same for me, but the magic is not written in my blood.”

The Overseer leaned on his staff, as though the memory carried weight.

“She was of the Dark,” he said, and Maren nodded at him, her brow creasing slightly, but offering no judgement. “But as loving and kind as she was powerful. I served her for many years.”

“As her familiar?” Maren asked, a quizzical look on her face. 

The Overseer nodded. 

“In what shape?” The woman wanted to know. “Surely not this one.”

He looked down at his human hands, remembering the feel of soft moss beneath his feet as he ran fleetly through the forest to do his witch’s bidding. 

“A fox,” he said, looking up at Maren with a rueful expression. 

Maren’s brows rose and she nodded toward the back room. “Is he—”

“That boy is no more a fox than I am truly a man,” the Overseer interjected. “Bewitched is he,” he went on, “in a cruel and calculated spell. One my witch tried to stop.”

He had never spoken this out loud and the words felt stiff on his tongue. 

Maren looked at him with open curiosity, clearly hoping he would elaborate, but this was a story that he owed to Fox first, and Fox wasn’t ready to hear it. Not yet. 

“I’m sorry you’ve lost her,” Maren said after a long silence. “Your witch. My mother had a familiar when I was very young. A seal, he was. Though he grew jealous of the attention she paid me.”

The Overseer nodded in recognition. “The relationship between a witch and her familiar is complex,” he said, an understatement. 

Maren nodded knowingly, and, he turned from her to look at the curtain which separated the back room from the front of the shop. It had been quiet for some time, and the Overseer hoped Dana was getting the rest she would need to make their escape when the morning came. 

Which wouldn’t be long now. The darkness outside was shifting, the blackness turning purple. Dawn was on its way. 

He almost felt bad for the young lovers. It would be one of their harder mornings, when Fox turned. 

“Once we’re gone,” the Overseer said, turning back to the apothecary’s wife. “Will you be safe here? The spell Fox cast will turn eyes of all kinds away from this place while we are here and it holds. But once we’re gone, people will remember the young woman that escaped and that you helped and spoke for her.”

Maren drew herself up to her full height. “We’ll not be run out of our own village,” she said. “The magic Silas has may be small, and unable to casts spells such as this one, but he has helped far more people than just your young witch. They’ll remember that.”

The Overseer hoped she was right. Silas, roused by the sound of his name, blinked sleepily up at his wife, and looked around the shop. 

“All is well?” he asked. 

“So far,” the Overseer said. 

And as the words left his lips there was a sharp knock on the apothecary’s door. 

Notes:

Listen, I'm "sorry," but they can't just fuck it out when everyone is in the other room! 😅 You will get your smut, but not while the whole blended retinue is within earshot. Let's have some propriety, folks. 😆 I promise I'll make the sex scene a good one. I DID say it was slow burn, did I not? XOXO

X's and O's to my betas as well. You guys work so quickly and diligently, I owe you.

Chapter 45

​​​​Silas sat up sharply, instantly awake.

“Do you get many callers this time of night?” the Overseer asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” the apothecary replied grimly. “We’re usually at home in our beds.”

He stood and came around the counter, pressing himself behind the door, shadowed in the flickering candlelight. The scent of burnt herbs and candle smoke still lingered in the air, curling in the corners of the dim room.

He stuck a finger in the curtain and pulled it back just enough to glimpse the figure on the stoop.

“It’s a man,” he whispered.

“What does he look like?” the Overseer asked softly.

“He’s in shadow. Too dark to see.”

The wards around the apothecary not only cloaked the building from magical view, but also prevented those within from looking out. If it was the Dark Mage, none of them might leave alive.

“Wake Fox and Dana,” the Overseer said to the viper, who slipped into motion at once. “Have them gather their things. They may need to slip out the rear door.”

The snake did as he bade, silent as smoke, disappearing beneath the curtain that led to the back.

A knock rang again—sharp, clear, too casual for the hour. “Hello? I can see candlelight.” called a voice from the other side of the door.

“Do you recognize the voice?” the Overseer asked, low.

Silas looked at his wife. She shook her head.

“Sounds young,” he said.

The Overseer considered, then called silently to the raven on the rafters above. “Is this the voice of the other prisoner?”

“Nay,” the bird replied, feathers rustling.

The man outside knocked again, giving no indication that he planned to stop. 

Maren had her apron in her hands and was wringing the fabric nervously. 

“If he keeps up this pounding and the constable or Nightwatch comes by, we could be inviting more trouble than we care to deal with,” she said, her voice tense. 

The Overseer considered this. Sighed heavily. “Open it,” he said. “But don’t let him in. Let us see what danger lurks beyond the wards tonight.”

Silas nodded, wetting his lips nervously.

“Hide yourselves,” Maren said, turning to the Overseer and the familiars. “All of you. At least get out of sight. If it’s a villager, the look of you will send them running.”

The floorboards creaked beneath the Overseer’s retreating step.

Silas waited beside the door, breath even but tight in his chest. Without a word, Maren handed him a lit candle. He drew back the bolt and eased the door open just a few inches, peering into the blue-gray hush of the gloaming.The flame of the candle guttered in the draft.

“We’re closed, stranger,” Silas said warily. “If you’re in need of medical treatment, the blacksmith’s a better surgeon than I.”

“I don’t seek treatment,” the man said. His voice was warm, upbeat, the kind of voice that belonged to easy smiles and boyish charm. “I’m here for a friend. Word has it you’ve been boarding her these last few days. Dana.”

Maren inhaled sharply, her hand flying to her mouth.

“It is early,” Silas said. “Perhaps you can find your friend after the sun has risen. But not here.”

He began to close the door, but the man put a hand against it—gently, not threatening, more petition than force.

“Please,” the man said, more earnest now. “I’ve brought some bad luck to her, and I want to make it right. I know she had trouble this afternoon. I want to help her leave this place. She’s from my village. I promised I’d bring her home. May I come in? I’d rather the constable not see me.”

Alexander, the Overseer thought, his stomach knotting. The boy was tangled up somehow with the Dark Mage. He had been the one to use the stone. His presence could bring ruin down upon them all.

“Bad luck has a way of spreading,” Silas said coldly. “I suggest you take it from my doorstep.”

He moved to close the door again, but the young man pushed back harder. Had Silas not been distracted by the sudden, sharp gasp behind him, he might have managed it. But his head turned at the sound—and in that instant, the door swung open just far enough for the candlelight—and the pale, bleeding light of approaching dawn—to fall across the stranger’s face.

Dana stepped through the curtain from the back room, Fox looming behind her, a silent sentinel, close as her shadow.

And the last thing the Overseer heard before chaos descended was her whisper: “Alexander?”

The name had barely left her lips when Fox moved.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t ask. Didn’t think. One heartbeat he was beside Dana—and the next, he launched forward like a loosed arrow, a flash of fury and motion.

The apothecary door slammed open with the force of his leap, limp forgotten, candlelight whipping sideways in the gust. Alexander barely had time to register the blur before a fist met his jaw with bone-cracking force. The sound of it echoed through the narrow street—a sickening thud followed by the wet crunch of cartilage. Alexander flew backward and crashed into the cobbles outside the shop, his limbs sprawling as he landed hard on his back.

Dana cried out. Silas cursed.

And then—the sharp, rhythmic clip-clop of hooves.

“The Nightwatch,” Silas hissed, his eyes darting toward the edge of the square where torches flickered in the decreasing darkness.

“Damn it,” the Overseer muttered. He stepped quickly over Alexander’s prone form and knelt beside him, his long fingers rifling through the young man’s coat and tunic.

“Hurry!” Maren warned. “They’re turning the corner!”

The Overseer found what he sought instantly: the smooth, round calling stone pulsing a sickly green against Alexander’s ribs. He yanked it free with a snarl of recognition.

“Drag him inside. Quickly!” he snapped, already reaching for the dagger at his belt.

Silas and Maren scrambled to obey, each grabbing an arm and hauling Alexander’s limp form through the door as the Overseer pressed the stone to his palm and began to chant. His voice was low and fast, the syllables coiled tight with power. He scored a sharp rune across the surface of the stone with the tip of his blade—deep enough to bite through the glow—and with a final word, the pulsing light dimmed to nothing. 

He ducked back into the apothecary, shoving the door shut with his shoulder and slamming the bolt into place. The apothecary fell silent but for the sound of ragged breathing.

Everyone stood frozen as the sound of horse hooves clopped by the outside of the shop and on into the fading night. 

Alexander stirred on the floor, a thin ribbon of blood trickling from his nose.

Fox stood over him, body trembling with restrained rage, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Dana caught his arm. “Fox—no.”

Silas joined her, planting a steady hand on Fox’s shoulder. “We need answers. Not blood.”

Fox didn’t look away from Alexander. His jaw was clenched, his chest heaving.

“Fox—” the Overseer said, and before the rest of the warning could leave his lips, the first rays of dawn hit the curtains in the shop windows and the sickening sound of bones snapping filled the small space as the man that had been Fox transformed into Dana’s familiar. 

***

Pain shattered through him as the shift overtook his body—ribs cracking, muscle twisting, arms collapsing beneath him as they shortened into forelegs. He hit the floor with a grunt, claws skidding on wood, his fur bristling in a flare of indignity and rage.

Not again.

Not now.

The change still stole his breath. Stole more than that—his voice, his reach, the ability to hold her. His skin still remembered the weight of Dana in his arms, the silk of her breath against his throat. The echo of her kiss hadn’t faded, not even a little.

And now he was reduced again. Small and powerless.

The ache of it—of losing the shape that had allowed her to look at him like that—her eyes half-lidded, stepping up to kiss him—twisted through him worse than the shift itself. He’d had her in his arms. Held her. He didn’t know when he’d be able to again. Or if. Not with the danger outside.

He turned, fangs bared, hackles raised. His eyes locked on Alexander’s crumpled form, and all Fox’s fury surged up at once.

The man who had turned an entire village against Dana. Who had lied. Who had called the Dark Mage.

Fox took one step forward, a low growl rising in his throat.

The Overseer dropped to a crouch in front of him, blocking his path. Met his eyes without flinching.

“Peace,” he said. “We do not have time for vengeance.”

Fox didn’t move, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring. The mark on his paw flickered dimly, echoing the magic still roiling inside him. His snarl deepened.

“He’s not worth it,” the Overseer said.

A beat passed. Then another.

Fox’s snarl didn’t cease, but it wavered. His golden eyes stayed fixed on Alexander’s prone body, and slowly, inch by inch, his head dropped in barely controlled restraint.

His breaths huffed fast through his nose, sharp and furious.

And then Dana stepped forward.

She knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder—human or fox, it didn’t matter. Her palm was warm, grounding. Her voice was even warmer.

“I need you,” she whispered.

That was what steadied him.

Fox turned his gaze toward her, and though fire still smoldered in his eyes, it no longer threatened to consume him. He held her gaze. Let it anchor him.

Then he dipped his head, just once, and backed away from the man on the floor.

The Overseer gave a single approving nod before crouching beside Alexander, his fingers reaching to pry open one eyelid.

“Dana,” he said without looking up, “what color are this man’s eyes?”

She hesitated, her voice uncertain. “Brown… I think?”

Fox padded forward, his body low and tense. He peered down, golden eyes narrowing. The exposed eye was green. But not naturally. There was a strange cast to it, a pale, waxy sheen like moss growing beneath glass. Not his green. Not human.

He sniffed, nostrils flaring. The scent rising off the man wasn’t right—sweet and metallic, threaded through with something oily and dark. It didn’t belong to any one person. It felt… conjured.

The Overseer rose slowly, the joints in his knees cracking softly as he straightened. His expression had gone hollow, grim.

“This man is enchanted,” he said. “A puppet on a string.”

Silas swore under his breath. Maren gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white.

“He’s been sent to find us,” the Overseer continued, his voice low and heavy. He looked toward the shuttered window, where pale dawn was just beginning to press through the curtains.

“The Dark Mage knows we’re here.”

Notes:

As always, a monstrous thanks to my betas!

Chapter 46

Notes:

Thank you SO MUCH for those of you who bought me a coffee! It fueled writing this monster chapter!

Fox walked toward the window with a slight limp, ears pinned back, fur still bristling as he kept watch. Dana felt the tug of their bond—tight and urgent—and ducked into the workroom to grab her satchel. Her spellbook was already inside. Silas pressed a warm flask into her hand, muttering something about strength and energy, before turning to help Maren sweep aside the rug near the hearth.

A moment later, Maren stepped in close and handed her a wrapped parcel. 

“Provisions,” she said, her eyes watery. “I wish I had more to give you.” 

Dana took the food and put both it and the flask into her satchel, turning to the older woman with tears in her own eyes. She reached out a hand. “Thank you,” she said, finding it difficult to speak past the lump in her throat. 

Maren glanced at her outstretched hand, then shook her head and pulled her in for a tight hug. “Don’t let anyone tell you who you are,” Maren said fiercely into her ear. “You already know.” 

One more tight squeeze and then the woman released her, sniffing and briskly wiping at her eyes. “Now go! And don’t forget your blade!”

Dana, fighting back a swell of emotion, glanced toward the edge of the workbench where Bite lay. She reached for it without a word, the weight of it steadying in her palm. She looped it through her belt and turned to Fox, who had trotted in anxiously from the window—her anchor, her witness, the one person who hadn’t let her go. 

“Courage,” he said, looking up at her with his golden eyes. 

Silas pulled open the hatch. Cold, damp air wafted up from the darkness beneath. A narrow flight of stone steps led down, carved into old earth and lined with crumbling mortar.

“This cellar runs behind the buildings on this row,” Silas said, brushing dust from his hands. “The apothecary, the baker’s next door, the weaver’s, the old tannery and its storehouse—if we exit out the storehouse we’ll come out in the alley running perpendicular to the shops. It’s not a clean escape exactly, but it gets you out of here without being seen.”

The Overseer gave a sharp nod. “Then that’s the way. All of you had best get moving.”

“You’re not coming?” Fox asked. 

“I’ll be along,” the Overseer said, and turned to walk back into the shop of the apothecary, his grey robes sweeping along behind him.

Dana watched him go and turned back when she heard the apothecary’s voice. 

“I’ll take you as far as the village’s edge,” Silas said. He touched Maren’s hand briefly before offering Dana a determined nod. “Let’s move.”

Dana looked from the stairwell to Fox, then back at Maren, her heart squeezing with a sharp pang of gratitude.

“I—” she started to say.

“Go!” Maren rushed, turning away to hide her tears. 

Dana descended first, careful on the uneven steps, the glow from the lantern Silas had handed her casting long shadows. Fox padded beside her, alert. The Raven fluttered silently down into the stairwell as Moth alighted on Dana’s shoulder. The viper slipped ahead like a whisper.

A moment later, Maren grabbed Silas’s arm as he was about to descend. 

“Alexander is gone,” she hissed “Move quickly!” 

Fox let out a vicious growl. 

Silas swore and hustled down the steps, the lantern he was holding swinging in his haste, casting odd shapes on the rough walls. 

They didn’t speak until the hatch closed behind them, sealing off the noise of the waking village above. The stairwell swallowed them in shadows and silence, and the only sound was the soft echo of their footsteps as they slipped beneath the earth. 

Ahead, Dana could see the pulsing glow of the wards protecting the apothecary in the high corners of the small tunnel, the light gradually dimming the further along they walked.

The air in the passageway had grown colder, heavy with the scent of old stone, damp earth, and the sharp tang of mildew. Dana’s limbs still ached from the events of the day before, but her grip was steady on Bite, and the certainty of having Fox back at her side spread through her like warmth.

Fox trotted just ahead, his limp barely noticeable now, ears alert and golden eyes gleaming in the flickering lantern light. Silas walked close behind him, the apothecary’s breath audible, his eyes scanning every door they passed.

“The tannery’s just ahead,” he said, voice low. “There’s a side entrance—if the hinges haven’t rusted clean through, we’ll come out into the alley just past the square.”

Dana nodded, clutching her satchel tighter. Moth shifted on her shoulder, wings twitching.

“Someone’s coming,” it said, the voice in her head startling her.

Fox stilled, and Dana followed suit.

Ahead, the narrow corridor widened slightly, the faint glow of early morning filtering through a warped wooden trap door at the far end, a narrow wooden staircase leading toward it. Dana could smell the cool, dew-laced air just beyond it—and something else. A wrongness in the light. A pressure in the air that made her stomach twist.

Silas turned toward them and his face fell in the light of the lantern he held. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“Something’s not right,” Dana said. “Up ahead.”

They couldn’t yet tell what waited above—whether it was the Dark Mage himself, an enchanted, escaped Alexander, or some new horror they hadn’t yet faced—but the energy had shifted. Thickened. As if bracing for what came next.

Silas’s hand gripped the lantern, his knuckles going white. “Back,” he said, pointing somewhere just behind them. “Up through the weaver’s.”

They doubled back in silence, the cobwebs hanging from the low ceiling flicking shadows on the walls. 

“Just there,” Silas said, pointing upward.

Dana lifted her lantern. The light flickered across the rough stone walls, catching on a narrow wooden panel overhead—the weaver’s trapdoor. Weathered and warped with age, it was inset tightly into the ceiling, a single iron ring embedded at its center. Below it, a narrow ladder lay on its side, half-caught on an overturned bucket. 

Silas set his lantern down and picked up the ladder, leaning it against the wall. He turned to the familiars. 

“Will you be able to climb?” he asked them. 

In answer, the viper coiled her way up the first few rungs. 

Fox’s ears went back. “I may need some help,” he said, his voice dripping with displeasure. 

“If he’s amenable,” Dana said, turning to Silas. “I may need to pick Fox up and hand him to you if you can go through first.” 

Silas nodded curtly and put a hand on the ladder, but beside her, Fox gave a displeased sniff. 

The apothecary ascended, the narrow rungs creaking under his weight. When he reached the top, he shoved at the door, which only lifted a few inches. 

Silas grunted and shoved again. The trapdoor gave with a protesting creak, wood scraping against stone. Dust and chilled morning air spilled in. Silas scrambled up and into the room above.

“It’s clear,” he whispered down. “Quickly.”

Dana turned to Fox. “Ready?”

Beside them, the raven hopped deftly from rung to rung, the moth fluttered through the opening in a fluttering spiral, and the viper wove her way upward in a silent, sinuous glide.

Fox watched them and then looked up at her. “Yes,” he said glumly, ears twitching.

She set down her lantern and crouched down to wrap her arms around him, hefting him with a grunt. “You’ve been eating well,” she muttered.

Fox made a noise that might’ve been a growl or a laugh, but he didn’t resist. Still, he was heavier than he looked—dense with muscle, warm and bristling with tension. She staggered slightly as she hoisted him into her arms, up and over one shoulder.

“Saints,” she breathed. “You’re built like a stoneware kettle.”

“One indignity after the next,” he huffed, like he meant to say it under his breath. 

“Do you have thoughts you’re not sharing?” she grunted, awkwardly climbing the first few rungs. 

“Many,” he quipped. 

Once she got to the top, she pushed him up as well as she could. Silas leaned down to take him, lifting Fox by the scruff like a well-trained midwife with a wriggling pup. Fox whipped a disgruntled tail  but didn’t struggle.

Then a sound echoed through the corridor behind them. A dull scrape. A scuff of something dragging over stone.

Dana froze.

Silas’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing.

Fox’s ears swiveled back. “The tannery passage,” he growled. “Someone’s trying the door.”

The viper hissed from above. Moth fluttered its wings, flitting to land on Silas’s collar. Dana shoved her satchel higher on her back and scrambled up through the hatch, letting Silas take her hand and haul her the last few inches into the weaver’s shop.

The trapdoor shut with a muted thud behind them.

The air inside was musty and still, tinged with lanolin and beeswax. Long bolts of fabric lined the walls, and half-finished garments hung like ghosts from hooks above the counter. Shadows stretched wide across the floor, touched by the first blush of dawn pressing through the shutters.

Fox was already at the window, fur on end.

Silas motioned for silence and crept to the door. He cracked it just enough to peer out into the lane, then dropped back with a grim shake of his head.

“It’s empty,” he said, uneasy.

Dana stepped up beside him and looked through a thin gap in the shutters. The village beyond looked like it had been abandoned mid-thought. No smoke rising from chimneys. No carts or horses. No vendors bringing their wares to the market. Only the silence—and the weight pressing behind it.

“Doesn’t feel right,” she said. “Shouldn’t there be people about? Starting their day?”

Then a flicker of motion. A figure stepped into view at the far end of the street.

Tall and dressed in black so dark it seemed to devour the light, there was the man who had haunted the edges of every whispered warning. The Dark Mage.

He walked with unsettling poise, his long coat tailored close to the body, its velvet folds stitched with a glimmer of silver thread that shimmered like veins of magic. Polished black boots struck the stone with each step, precise and unhurried, and gloves of supple leather clung to his hands like second skin. A high collar framed his face—sharp-jawed, clean-shaven, every line elegant and exacting. No wizard’s robe, no wild hair or ragged staff. This was refinement sharpened into a weapon. A man who had chosen darkness and wore it like silk.

Dana’s breath caught. 

And behind them, a thump from the tunnel they’d just left. 

A second sharp dart of fear pierced her chest. 

Fox turned toward the trapdoor, nosing the air, muzzle pulling back in a snarl.

“Alexander,” he hissed.

“Silas,” Dana whispered, nodding at the trap door. 

With a silent nod, they moved together, grabbing onto a nearby warping board and shoving it on top of the door just as it started to lift. 

They held it—just barely. The warping board skidded slightly as the trapdoor shuddered beneath it, Alexander ramming upward with sudden force. Silas dropped a heavy crate on top. Dana grabbed a second and added her weight to it, heart pounding in her throat.

The thud came again. A grunt.

“He’s trying to force it,” Fox growled before he too jumped on top of the pile.

“You think your weight will be what stops him?” Dana asked.

“Heavier than a stonewear kettle, wasn’t I?” he replied, shifting to balance his weight.

Dana shook her head and turned sharply toward the door.

The raven was already there, peering through the shutters. “We can’t run,” she said, voice tight. “The Dark Mage is out there. Blocking the lane.”

“I’ve got the weight of it,” Silas said, heaving a large sack of wool roving—recently dampened—on top of the pile. “Have a look.”

The struggle beneath them slowed, and Dana moved to the window, Fox close behind. Through the narrow gap in the shutters, they could just see their pursuer at the far end of the street: the sleek, looming figure, jet black hair shot through with grey. He stood still, surveying the silent village as though his gaze could pass through stone.

“We’re trapped,” Dana said, her voice low. “He’s ahead. Alexander’s behind.”

The Raven fluttered nervously on a ceiling beam. “He won’t stop,” she said. “Until he has Dana.”

Fox’s body coiled low. “If he moves this way, I’ll—”

“You’ll die,” Dana said, gripping his scruff. “So will I. We can’t fight him. Not alone.”

The trapdoor shuddered again. A crack splintered through the old wood.

Then, just when panic threatened to crest, the bell over the apothecary’s door gave a distant chime.

The Overseer stepped out into the open street, robes brushing the stone, staff glinting faintly in the strange morning light.

“Looking for someone?” he called, calm and clear.

The Dark Mage turned.

And for a moment—just a breathless, teetering moment—the weight of his power filled the entire lane, thick and electric as a coming storm. Magic began to hum at the edges of things, coiling like smoke in the still air.

Inside the weaver’s, no one moved. No one dared.

“Well aren’t you interesting,” the Dark Mage said, stepping forward and peering curiously at the Overseer. 

The Overseer didn’t flinch. “I could say the same.”

“You’re not a mage but emit dark power,” the man in black mused, his voice light, but a sharpness beneath. “How very curious.” He tilted his head. “What can you do for me?”

“I’m here merely to offer you a warning,” the Overseer replied. “Turn around. Leave this place.”

The Dark Mage laughed. It was a low, amused sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “A warning. From a man in rags.”

His fingers twitched, and the air flexed around him. The cobblestones underfoot cracked softly as if under the pressure of something vast and invisible.

Inside the weaver’s, Dana dared a glance at Fox, who crouched low beside the door, his golden eyes fixed on the street. There was still thumping on the trap door, though Silas was managing to keep it closed. 

“Is he stalling?” she whispered.

“He’s trying,” Fox answered grimly. “The second the mage turns his back or is distracted, we have to run.”

“We’ll never make it,” hissed the viper. “The Overseer may be distracting him, but if you step into the lane, he’ll see you.”

Fox swore. The viper was right. Once they exited the weaver’s they would still have to dart down the lane, past the tannery and storehouse before they could disappear into the alley and out of sight. 

“What if we had cover?” Dana asked. “What if I could magick something?” 

Without waiting for an answer, Dana reached into her satchel and pulled out her spell book, riffling through the pages. Plants, drawings, descriptions, nothing new—and then—filling in the script as she watched, a spell unfurled across a page. A Spell To Conjure Fog . It required nothing but focus and a recitation. She could do this.  

Outside, the Overseer raised his staff.

“You’ve enchanted a man,” he said, voice sharp now. “Used him to breach the walls of a protected place. Threatened innocents. What do you want?”

She closed her eyes, grounding herself in the quiet seam where her magic kissed the waiting earth. Then she looked down at the spell. 

In the lane, the Dark Mage answered the Overseer’s question. “There’s a girl,” he said, and Dana could practically feel his eyes scanning the shuttered windows. “A threat. A prophecy. I imagine you’ve heard of it.”

Dana’s concentration faltered. What had the man said? She looked away from the book and back out at the two older men in the lane. 

“She’s just a girl,” the Overseer said.

The Dark Mage’s expression didn’t change. “Then why protect her?”

Dana swallowed, her mind spinning.

“Dana?” Fox said, his voice worried. 

She looked at her familiar then back at her book. The spell in front of her seemed to waver on the page. 

Then, from his perch above the trapdoor—still braced against the force of Alexander straining below—Silas spoke with a startling calm, a quiet resolve, as though the chaos around him didn’t exist.

“Dana,” he said. “There is nothing in this world but you and your spell. Let everything fall aside. Connect to the earth. Recite your enchantment.” 

Dana looked to the lane once more, just as the Dark Mage lifted one hand and sent a bolt of magic streaking toward the apothecary. The air warped around it, heat and pressure gathering in its wake. The cobblestones beneath the blast line trembled, a low quake shivering through the street.

But before it could land, the Overseer struck his staff to the ground.

Light flared outward in a dome from the staff’s crystal—radiant green laced with white. The bolt collided with it in a roar of heat and energy, the barrier holding fast. Waves of light rippled through the air. The apothecary stood untouched, still and silent behind its shield.

The mage narrowed his eyes at the Overseer. “Interesting indeed.” He took a slow step forward. “Did the girl conjure you? Send you like some guardian ghost?” His voice darkened. “She was hidden from me for years. My children were meant to fulfill the prophecy. But Light took them.” The mage paused, gaze flicking toward the apothecary, as if Dana were still inside. “If she thinks she’s its answer, she’s more foolish than I thought.” 

Behind the barrier, the Overseer’s voice boomed—not with volume, but with gravity. “You will not touch her.”

In the weaver’s shop, the young witch flinched. 

“Dana,” said Fox, and then warmth bloomed through their bond, steady and sure. Despite the chaos outside, the mage’s words, her fear and uncertainty, she drew a breath, let the warmth anchor her, and spoke the enchantment.

The words left her lips like breath into winter air—soft, but charged with purpose. She pictured fog rolling in off the sea, slow and thick, cloaking the shore like a secret. She held that image in her mind and whispered the command.

The air stirred.

At first, it was nothing—just a faint shift, a hush in the street beyond the shutters. Then the temperature dropped, and from somewhere deeper in the village, a silver mist began to unfurl. It curled low along the ground, clinging to cobblestones, thickening with every heartbeat.

Outside, the Overseer squared his stance, as though bracing against a wind only he could feel. The Dark Mage turned slightly, his brow furrowing.

Still Dana murmured the spell, drawing the fog forward like pulling thread from a spool. It pooled around the edges of the weaver’s, masking their doorway and the lane beyond it in a veil of lightless gray. Sound dulled. Shapes blurred.

“Now,” Fox said. 

Even Silas, whose ears were deaf to the language of the familiars, moved without needing to be told. The trap door he was holding shut had gone quiet. After stepping back a moment to be sure it wouldn’t be flung open, he hurried to where Dana and Fox waited and shouldered the door just wide enough to slip into the lane. One by one, they vanished into the mist—Fox’s golden eyes just visible before the fog swallowed him whole. The familiars scattered into the shadows above and below. Dana went last, the final syllable of the spell still warm on her tongue as she stepped into the thick gray veil she’d conjured.

They darted down the lane, ghostlike in the fog. 

Dana’s breath sounded too loud in her ears. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.

A shout rang out behind them—too indistinct to make out, but edged with anger.

“Faster,” Silas hissed.

They didn’t run. They flew—feet light, silhouettes vanishing and reappearing in the shifting gray. The mist moved with them now, thickening where it needed to, parting just enough to show the next few steps ahead.

There. The alley. 

Fox led the way, taking the corner quickly, skidding across the wet. Dana followed, her boots striking the flagstones of the alley floor. She turned the corner with a gasp, mist still curling after her like smoke from a snuffed flame.

They had made it. 

Each of them paused to trade relieved looks before they moved on, slipping from doorway to doorway, darting past hanging laundry, abandoned crates, and silent shutters. But just as they reached the end of the alley, where a small arched passage would lead them to a courtyard and then the woods beyond the village—

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Alexander’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade.

He stood at the entrance to the wynd, eyes glassy with enchantment. And behind him—

A monstrous black horse, muscular and tall, its flanks shiny as a mountain pool. It snorted and took a menacing step forward. 

“Beware!” shouted the viper. “The stallion is the Dark Mage’s familiar!”

But there was nowhere to go. 

Behind them and down the lane, distracted by the Overseer and the conjured fog, loomed the Dark Mage. Ahead, the only other exit was blocked—Alexander stood there, unsteady on his feet, eyes glazed, and beside him the massive black stallion pawed the ground, its head lowered, tail flicking with agitation.

“I’ll deal with him,” Fox said, his voice low, but before he could move, the viper shot forward, slithering toward the beast with an angry hiss. 

Alexander lurched, trying to stomp her, but she twisted away and struck him—sinking her fangs deep into his other ankle. With a whip of her body, she flipped clear, venom already coursing through her foe, and darted straight toward the horse. Alexander crumpled to his knees with a strangled gasp.

The stallion reared up, giving a whinny and kicking its front feet in the air. “Go!” the viper shouted at Dana and Fox. 

“Fly!” reaffirmed the raven, who swooped under the horse and onward through the arched passage, leading the way. 

Fox and Dana wasted no time, dashing past Alexander—slumped and groaning—and the rearing stallion, Silas close behind. As they passed, the horse came crashing down onto the cobbles and kicked, hooves sharp as razors striking the viper mid-lunge.

“No!” Silas roared.

Dana spun in time to see the viper’s body flung hard against the stone wall, the impact sickening. She writhed once—twice—then fell still, her coils slackening into silence.

Silas lunged toward her, but the stallion wheeled and bucked, catching him in the ribs with a savage kick. He crumpled with a grunt, and rolled onto his back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Dana started toward him, heart clenching, but Fox sprang in front of her.

“Go!” he shouted, raw and anguished. “Viper is gone—don’t let it be for nothing!”

Before Dana could respond, another figure burst from the end of the lane and into the alley—the familiar blur of Maren’s skirts and wild hair.

“No—Silas!” she cried, skidding to a stop and dropping to her knees beside him.

He lifted his head, blood trickling from a gash at his temple. “I will heal,” he rasped. 

Maren looked up. “Go, girl! Now!” 

Dana took a reluctant step, then another—but a sudden weight tugged at her chest, like gravity twisting sideways.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Dana turned—and there he was.

The Dark Mage.

He stood, blocking the wynd as if he had always been there, black cloak rustling in the faint breeze, eyes as black as obsidian.

Fox dropped low beside her, hackles up, teeth bared in a snarl.

The Dark Mage looked past him—past everyone—and fixed his gaze directly on her.

He took a slow step forward.

“So this is the heir of Light,” he said, his voice edged like a blade. “The last.”

Dana stood frozen, though her fingers found the hilt of Bite without thinking.

The Dark Mage tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle.

“Your mother was wise to hide you,” he said. 

Dana swallowed, feeling the soft fingers of dark magic creep steadily toward her from where the mage stood, like a shadow growing long with the setting sun. 

She and Fox took several steps back into the alley, Fox sure to keep his body between hers and the dark figure before them. 

“One will fall,” the Dark Mage said, stepping forward, his voice like metal dragged over gravel. 

With a gasp, Dana looked toward Fox but he seemed unaffected by the words which she had heard come from his own lips, in what now seemed like a different life. 

Before she could compose another thought, the air changed. Again.

Not the way it had before—not with the coiling tension of power, or the sharp snap of magic being drawn—but something deeper. Like the slow pulling of breath through air choked with ash. Dana staggered back half a step. The weakness came on slowly but unmistakably.

Fox turned. “What is that?”

From behind them, where the mist continued to slide in low along the stones—came that feeling. The same one she’d felt in the tower—when her strength had begun to slip away. A drain, as if something inside her were being pulled toward the cold of a sunless death.

Silas swore under his breath. The stallion familiar shifted uneasily, snorting and stomping its hooves. Even the Dark Mage turned, sensing the shift.

And from the edge of the mist came the sound of footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Approaching.

A figure emerged into view—a man, or something that only looked like one. He wore travel-worn boots and dark, threadbare clothing that clung to his lean frame like it had been soaked and left to dry on him. His dark hair hung damp over his forehead, and his pale skin caught the dawnlight with a strange, dull sheen.

The man—Dana recognized him with dread—was the prisoner from the neighboring cell. The one who had almost killed her when she’d tried to draw on her magic.

His eyes gleamed yellow in the gloom.

He sniffed the air once, slow and deliberate, then smiled—sharp and hungry.

“Ah,” he said. “So this is what true power smells like.”

The Dark Mage’s head whipped around.

He was coming up behind them, positioning himself like a hunter finding a new target, his eyes keenly on the Dark Mage.

Dana’s heart pounded. A chill slicked down her spine.

The man’s smile widened as he flicked his eyes toward her.

“She was a meal,” he said, turning to the Dark Mage. “You’ll be a feast.”

The Dark Mage didn’t flinch, but something in his posture shifted. A flicker of recognition. Wariness. He stepped away from the arched passage.

“A Dreyn,” he said, his voice low. “Below the Veil?”

A long blade shimmered into existence at his side, rippling into form from a wisp of shadow. He gripped it without ceremony.

Dreyn, Dana thought. An apt description of a beast who looked like a man. Who sucked the life right out of you.

“Are there more of you?” The Dark Mage went on. 

The Dreyn smiled.

“Not yet.”

A beat passed, thick with magic and dread.

Then—

“Away!”

The voice rang down the alley, hoarse but commanding. In the narrow passage leading out from the storehouse stood the Overseer—bloodied, one arm pressed to his side, but upright and unyielding, his staff crackling with light.

The Dreyn’s head snapped toward him with interest.

The Dark Mage did not take his eyes off the thing in front of him.

The Dreyn merely grinned, unconcerned—as if the Overseer were a curiosity, not a threat. He took in the scene with a predator’s ease, his yellow eyes sweeping lazily across the cobbles, pausing on the mage, the horse, the girl.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned—not toward Dana or the Mage or even Silas—but toward the stallion.

The horse’s ears pinned flat. Muscles rippled under its black coat. It snorted, stamping once, but didn’t back away. The Dreyn took a step closer. Another. He lifted one hand.

“Such fine bindings,” he murmured, fingers spread wide, palm glowing faintly as if drawing something unseen from the air. “Even familiars bleed power, if you know how to take it.”

The stallion screamed.

It reared, hooves flailing, eyes rolling white. For a terrifying second, its legs locked midair—then trembled, buckling slightly as the Dreyn advanced, hand still outstretched.

“No!” the Overseer bellowed.

He surged forward, blood still streaked down the side of his face, his staff raised high. A blast of green light exploded outward as he struck the cobbles—the energy slamming into the Dreyn with a flash that knocked the creature stumbling back, smoke curling from his chest, tunic hissing where it met the wet stone.

The stallion staggered away, flanks heaving, but upright. The Overseer edged his way over to it and put a calming hand on the familiar’s flank, whispering a spell under his breath.

The Dark Mage turned fully now, blade drawn and pulsing with black flame, eyes locked on the Dreyn, who rose back to standing.

“A creature of hunger,” the mage said. “You should’ve stayed above the Veil.”

The Dreyn smiled again, slow and delighted, and licked his teeth.

That was the moment.

The Overseer didn’t even look at them—just hissed, low and urgent:

“Go. Now!”

Dana and Fox scrabbled for the passage and flew through the wynd.

Behind them, the street lit with clashing magic. But ahead of them, the fog beckoned. They didn’t look back, and the air behind them thundered with the storm they’d left behind.

Notes:

UNENDING thanks to Anna, Becca and Kim!

Chapter 47

​​​​They ran until breath became a stranger.

The world narrowed to pounding feet, the crack of branches, the rasp of lungs scraping for air. Dana didn’t know how long they’d been running—minutes? hours? Time had lost all meaning somewhere between the howl of ancient magic behind them and the forest swallowing them whole. Morning had broken fully, casting long gold slats through the thinning canopy above, but even the light felt brittle. Untrustworthy.

Fox darted ahead of her, little more than a streak of copper and white, his movements sharp but slowing, the slight limp he’d had since they reunited more pronounced. Dana’s legs trembled beneath her, each step heavier than the last, her boots dragging through damp leaves and churned mud. Her breath tore ragged from her chest, and still she pushed forward.

They couldn’t stop. Not yet.

The wind shifted—she tasted salt, distant water—and her stomach twisted. They were nearing the northern cliffs. Maybe that was good. Maybe it wasn’t. She wasn’t sure anymore.

Fox paused at the top of a rise, tail twitching, and turned back to her. His flanks rose and fell with effort, fur matted and streaked with the wet of dew and dirt. “Here,” he said, voice breathless through their bond. “Just a moment. We need to breathe.”

Dana collapsed beside him without protest, dropping to her knees and bracing her hands in the loam. She was shaking. Her blade seemed to drag at her hip. Her satchel bit into her shoulder, its weight growing ever heavier.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their breath and the rustle of the forest.

“How is your leg?” she finally asked.

“Still attached to my body,” he said. “Are you well?”

“I think,” she whispered, “I might be dead.”

Fox huffed, ears flicking toward her. “If you’re dead, I’m worse.” He flopped down beside her, tongue lolling, sides heaving. “Do ghosts pant?”

She let out a laugh—dry and cracked.

She pulled her satchel off of her shoulder, digging into it with a trembling hand for the bladder of water she knew rested there. But her fingers came to rest on the small flask Silas had given her, which clinked faintly as she pulled it free.

“Might I hope that’s a potion infused with endurance, clarity and the strength to keep going?” Fox asked.

Dana opened the cork with her teeth. The scent of cloves and something sharper—ginger, maybe—rose up to meet her.

“I’d settle for whatever keeps me upright,” she said, and tipped it back.

Warmth bloomed down her throat and into her belly, spreading outward like firelight. Her limbs didn’t stop aching, but the shaking eased, and her breath came easier.

Fox sat up, watching her, narrow snout still open in a pant. He didn’t look any less tired than she felt, and he bent down and licked briefly at his sore ankle.

“Perhaps I should try the healing spell again?” she asked, shoving the cork back in.

Fox looked up quickly as if embarrassed to be caught doing something so animalistic, but she held his gaze steadily and sent a pulse of reassurance through the bond between them.

He seemed to relax slightly on his haunches.

“Perhaps you could,” he said.

Dana shifted to her knees and pulled the satchel closer. Her fingers were steadier now as she loosened the ties on the pouch of herbs—yarrow, comfrey, mallow root. Only a little left. But she didn’t think she’d need much.

She crushed them between her fingers, and the scent rose around her, sharper now, more familiar. Grounding.

She glanced at Fox. He was watching her closely, his ears high, eyes bright despite the exhaustion that clung to both of them.

This time, she didn’t fumble for a strand of his hair. She reached out and gently plucked one from the thick fur near his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

Bite’s blade flashed briefly as she pricked her finger. The pain was sharp, but fleeting. A single drop welled up.

She let it fall into the crushed herbs in the center of her palm. Then she closed her hand, drew in a breath—and spoke the spell as if it had always belonged to her:

“From root to vein, from sky to stone,
By blood and bond, not flesh alone,
Mend what’s torn, restore what’s true,
My will, my heart—I give to you.”

She didn’t falter, the words leaving her lips steady and sure.

The magic came instantly.

A shimmer passed over her skin like the hush before a storm. Light bloomed at her fingertips, delicate and golden, and spilled from her palm into the space between them. It curled toward Fox like a ribbon in water, drawn by the thread that bound them.

He blinked, startled—not in pain, but in wonder—as the light touched his paw, his ankle. His fur stirred in a wind that didn’t blow. The mark from the bonding spell pulsed faintly, as if echoing the rhythm of her words.

Dana could feel the spell take hold in a quiet, potent thrum. Power moved through her with ease, no longer hesitant or unsure, so unlike the first time she’d tried the spell.

Fox let out a breath, long and low. Then he stretched his leg cautiously and gave an approving flick of his tail.

“Well,” he said, voice tinged with relief, and a little awe. “Well.”

She rubbed the bits of herb out of her hand and stood, her legs still weak and stiff, despite Silas’s restorative elixir.

“Perhaps travel will be easier now,” she said.

Fox rose to standing, flexing his fully healed leg. “I’m like to never want to travel again after this,” he said.

Dana couldn’t help but give him a weary smile. She felt the same way.

“We’ll walk now,” she said. “Just walk.”

He gave a small nod and fell into step beside her as they continued on, the world shifting from silver morning into the slanted gold of afternoon. Neither had the energy for more talk.

The trees thinned, then thickened again. The path—if it could even be called that—twisted and tangled, nothing but a faint thread of trodden underbrush winding through the early autumn forest.

Dana pressed a hand to her side, where a dull cramp had begun to burn. Her legs throbbed with every step, and her boots, damp with sweat and the fading memory of morning dew, squelched against her heels. Fox trotted ahead, his paws near-silent on the mossy ground, but even he was flagging, tail low, gait uneven.

Dusk had begun to settle by the time Dana finally let herself drop to the forest floor beneath a crooked, moss-veiled tree. The sky above was now streaked with red and the first hints of lavender, clouds limned in gold. Her limbs screamed in protest as she folded them beneath her. Every muscle throbbed, her back ached, and the skin around her shoulders felt rubbed raw where her satchel had dug in.

She sat for a long moment, motionless, staring at nothing.

The weight of it all pressed in at once—what they had seen, what they had done, what they had barely escaped. The Dreyn. The prophecy. The Dark Mage’s eyes, cold with knowing, the words “your mother” on his lips. And still, something inside her had not caught up. It was too much to hold. Too much to think. She could feel it circling in her chest like a storm, but she pushed it away for now.

“We’ll talk,” she murmured hoarsely. “Later.”

Fox gave a soft huff of agreement as she pulled out the small wool blanket from her bag and he curled in beside her without another word, his flank pressed against her hip, grounding and warm. For a moment, she let herself lean into it.

“No fire?” he asked, his voice low, already drifting toward sleep.

“I don’t have it in me.”

They lay together under the spreading limbs of the tree, the air cooling by degrees. Dana closed her eyes, hoping for sleep to claim her. But it didn’t. Her body was spent, beyond exhaustion—but her mind wouldn’t follow. Every time she neared the edge of rest, it dragged her back with some fresh worry, some flicker of memory: the crack of the trapdoor. The wet thump of the viper’s body hitting the cobbles. The sight of the Overseer’s bloodied face. The raw assault of the mage’s gaze.

She rolled onto her side, restless, but it didn’t help. Her legs still ached. Her thoughts still churned. Her magic still stirred under her skin like smoke trapped under an iron snuffer.

Fox shifted, his soft fur brushing against her arm. Just enough to remind her he was there. His warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice betrayed her.

“You’re not,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “What is it?”

She hesitated. The words felt foolish as they formed—but they came anyway.

“I don’t feel safe.”

Fox cracked an eye.

“I know we’re far,” she said. “But it feels like they’ll find me. Like he’ll find me. Like my magic’s some kind of beacon. Is that silly?”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff. “That doesn’t sound silly.”

Her throat tightened.

“Is there a spell?” he asked gently. “Something that could shield your magic? Keep it from being sensed?”

She pulled her spellbook from her bag with shaking fingers. The cover felt warm in her hands, as though it already knew what she needed. She opened it, skimming the two other spells the book contained.

There, across the middle of the next page, overlaying a description of the uses of meadowsweet, ink blossomed and curved.

A Shielding Spell: To Conceal Magic Below the Veil

Dana read it twice before letting out a breath. “It needs willow bark and bog myrtle.”

Fox was already rising to stand. “I’ll help.”

They foraged by the last rays of the sun, Fox sniffing through fallen leaves, nosing at bark and shrubs. Between them, they found enough to fill her wooden bowl. She ground and mixed and whispered the words the spellbook gave her, letting the bowl rest between her hands as the power settled.

She felt it flow outward—slow and cool like a river, cloaking her skin, then Fox’s. It settled gently, like a second skin of stillness.

“Do you feel it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Like chain mail. Heavy and light all at once.”

She nodded and closed the book, but paused before putting it away, rubbing her hands over the cover and thumbing the thick pages along their edge.

“It does this,” she said. “Gives me what I need, when I need it. It’s like it listens.”

Fox peered at it. “Is there a spell in there for conjuring a warm bed under a sturdy roof?”

The ink dulled, the page growing faint.

Dana laughed softly. “No. I’m beginning to sense it only deals in emergencies and epiphanies. Creature comforts offend its sensibilities.”

She tucked the book back into her satchel, stifling a yawn.

Fox circled once and curled back beside her, his eyes drifting closed. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“You’re already falling asleep,” she whispered, smiling.

“Only a little.”

They lay there, the two of them pressed close beneath the trees, wrapped in quiet and spellwork and everything left unsaid.

And finally, finally, sleep came.

***

Dana stirred in the dark, the hush of the forest pressing in close. The air had grown cooler, damp with night, but she was warm—her body pressed against something firm and alive. Her hand, half-curled in sleep, rested against the slow rise and fall of a linen-clad chest—solid and warm. Human.

She blinked.

Fox.

No longer furred and four-legged, but flesh and blood beside her. Long-limbed and lean, the heat of his body a low, steady burn. One of his arms lay loose around her waist, and his breathing was steady, contented. In the faint moonlight, his face was soft in sleep—shadows hollowing his cheeks, lashes dark against his skin, full lips slightly parted. Even at rest, there was something striking in his stillness. Something noble. Beautiful.

She exhaled slowly and let her eyes close again, tempted to stay there, tucked into his side. But something stirred in her—the restlessness of energy regained, the small magic of Silas’s draught still lingering in her blood.

Though Fox was warm beside her, the night carried the chill of autumn and of the north.

She thought about building a fire. Something small, just enough to take the edge off the cold.

Sliding away gently, she gathered a small bundle of kindling and pine needles from the forest floor. She crouched beside the pile and reached for her satchel, fingers brushing over her flint. She paused.

No.

She straightened and drew in a breath, grounding herself.

Her lungs filled with the scent of pine and damp earth, and she remembered the candles in Silas’s shop, how they’d leapt to life with her breath. She shaped her exhale around that memory.

Intent. Focus.

A single breath out—and a flame sparked in the heart of the kindling.

Dana sat back, satisfied pleasure curling through her. The fire flickered to life, small but proud, and she could feel the protective spell still wrapped around her magic, tucking it safely away from any watching eyes—but not from her.

She leaned back to admire her work.

Behind her, Fox stirred.

She turned to see him shift onto one elbow, his eyes hooded with sleep but sharp and assessing as they slid over her in the small firelight. A low, satisfied sound escaped him.

“That’s a clever trick,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

She shrugged, suddenly shy under his gaze. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” His eyes swept over her again, slower this time. “Come here.”

Something in his words curled something low in her belly and bloomed.

She moved toward him, drawn like a tide, until she was nestled against his side once more. His arm came around her, anchoring her, and the world narrowed to her own tremulous breath and the heat of him against her.

It felt right.

Her cheek rested against his shoulder. He was warm, his heartbeat steady under her palm. She should sleep. Should let her mind still and drift off again. But—

She didn’t want sleep. Not yet.

Fox was watching her, the firelight flickering in his eyes. They held a spark of tenderness. And something else—something deeper, darker, hungrier. His gaze caught hers and held it, and suddenly she couldn’t look away. The fire beside them crackled gently, but the true fire was in his eyes, and it lit something fierce inside her.

“Dana,” he murmured, low and rough. Her name, and everything wrapped inside it.

She leaned into him—into the heat between them, into the bond that pulled them close, into the way her body curved into his like she had always belonged there.

His lips met hers.

The kiss was unhurried, but it seared—slow and deliberate—their desire undeniable. His hands roamed her back, her hips, relearning her shape with reverent certainty. She rolled herself on top of him, one of her hands tangled in his hair, the other fisting the blanket beneath them. Her breath hitched as the spark inside her flared—wild and electric.

And for the first time, she felt safe enough to let it burn.

She didn’t know what she needed. She only knew she needed more. She pressed into him, pulling him closer with both arms, thrusting tentatively with her hips.

He hissed in a breath, sharp and trembling, and reached down to still her hands—gentle, but firm.

“Not here,” he said, lips still brushing hers, breath shallow and shared. “Not like this.”

“Not like what?” she panted, lost in the rush of feeling. More was everything. More was the only thing that made sense.

She moved again, hips pressing against his, and the friction was exquisite. Her breath stuttered.

His did too, a deeper sound this time—something more than breath, something barely held together. And it thrilled her.

She was doing this to him. Whatever this was—this ache, this need, this pull—it was hers. It was because she was his.

He lifted his head to touch his forehead to hers, eyes closed. “Don’t think I don’t want to.”

“Then why—”

“Because if I start,” he said, voice tight and ragged, “I won’t be able to stop.”

His hand came to her cheek, brushing a thumb across her skin. “And it shouldn’t be when we’re half-dead. Not in the dirt. Not after what you just survived.”

Her breath caught—and this time, not from want, but from something gentler. Something that wrapped around her chest like light.

Fox opened his eyes.

“Dana,” he said again, softer now, “I want you. But I want it to be all of us—whole, steady. Not something we steal from the edge of exhaustion.”

She swallowed, her body still thrumming, but her heart shifting.

“All right,” she whispered, sliding back to his side.

He nodded and kissed her again—slower, just once, but it went through her like a vow.

Then he pulled her against him and tucked her head beneath his chin.

And this time, when she closed her eyes, it wasn’t sleep she fell into.

It was peace.

Chapter 48

Notes:

For Sydney, my writing companion of sixteen years, who slipped away on Tuesday. She was always there when I worked, stretched out on my desk or curled in the chair beside me, quiet and steady as the words came. The world feels smaller without her, my desk lonelier. Writing will never feel quite whole again.

The cord bit into his wrists, was wrapped tight around his chest, squeezing, making it difficult to breathe. But it wasn’t just rope that bound him, it was magic, too; odd and discordant, humming with someone else’s power. He pulled once, twice, but it only cinched tighter. 

Stone pressed against his knees. His head throbbed, his ribs screamed where he'd been thrown. He tried to lift his chin, but the dark dragged him under again—

—then, just as suddenly, up. A flicker in his sightline. Yellow-green eyes watched him from the shadows. A black cat crouched low, tail twitching once, silent and knowing. It didn’t blink, just stared, judging. Watching.

He wanted to speak, but no sound came. The world swam.

Through the roar in his ears, another voice cut through. A woman’s voice. Distant, urgent. Pleading.

 “…prophecy…”

The magic twisted tighter, sinking its claws into him.

“…heir…bound…”

He tried to focus, to cling to her voice, but it slipped, muffled, lost in the torrent of foreign magic clawing at him. It seemed to go on and on and he floated up and out of it and then sank back down, swimming in and out of consciousness. 

The chanting started. Quick. Wrong in every way. Words made of teeth and iron hooks, dragging something loose inside his chest. Every syllable scraped his nerves raw.

“NO!” 

The word came from her, sharp and breaking, a scream that seemed to tear the world apart.

For a heartbeat, the magic binding him tangled with something achingly known—and then it tore loose, shattering through him, jagged and wrong, leaving fire-and-ice agony in its wake.

—Fox woke with a strangled breath, heart hammering, sweat chilling his skin. It took him a moment to realize where he was. To feel the weight and warmth curled against him, Dana’s hand fisted lightly in his tunic, her breath soft against his chest.

She sniffed to awareness, inhaling deeply, the current of disquiet from his dream drifting through the bond that marked their skin. He tried to pull it back, but it was too late. 

Dana sat up, her hand still clutching his front. 

“Are you well?” she said, blinking into the dying firelight. Above them, the sky was awash in stars, the pinpricks of light like the sun shining through a curtain of dark linen. 

He swallowed, needing a moment to adjust to his surroundings. To her. It had only been a 

week—perhaps two—since they’d last been together, but their time apart had felt interminable. 

“It was the dream again, wasn’t it?” Dana asked, sitting up completely. The cool night air drifted in where she’d been pressed up next to him, and he shivered, once. 

“Yes,” he panted, his breathing just beginning to regulate. 

Dana rose and added another piece of wood to the fire, sending up a plume of orange sparks that blazed and then winked out. Her face was amber in the fire’s renewed glow, her freckles lost in the monochrome.

She came back over to him and lowered herself mindfully to the blanket he still lay upon, reaching out to loosely lace her fingers with his. 

“Was it the same?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said once again. “And no.”

She tilted her head at him, curious. 

He rubbed a hand over his face. There was grit there amongst the shadow of hair that grew, though he would be freshly shaved again with dusk. “There was a woman there trying to help me. She mentioned a prophecy. An heir.”

Dana’s mouth pressed into a long, thin line. “Like the Dark Mage.”

He nodded.

“I was bound,” he said. “But it wasn’t just with ropes,” he went on. “This time I could feel… it was with magic, too.”

She nodded at this. 

“You saw more this time? It was different?”

“It was the same,” he said. “ I was more.”

She looked at him for a long moment, 

“You’re a mage,” Dana said softly. 

He thought of the moment in the backroom of the apothecary, the magic of the sea witch’s grimoire rising up to meet him like the tide.

“Yes.” 

The word landed heavily between them, a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading in the silence. 

Dana swallowed. Looked at him. “Your body is starting to remember,” she said. “Even if your mind won’t.”

His hand up in the air, the magic trying to course through him, but held back by some unknown force. A force like the binding of a cord.  

“Do you think,” Dana started, “that the dream you’re having is—”

“—the memory of my being bewitched,” Fox finished. He was certain now. The feeling was the same. 

“What was done to me, to change me…”

He looked up at her. The firelight played across her face—curious, open, unafraid. 

“It’s binding my magic, too.”

Her expression didn’t change. There was understanding there. 

“So your dreams are memories,” she said after a moment.

He nodded once.

Dana looked over to her satchel and then pulled it to her, digging inside until she pulled out the spellbook and began rifling through the pages. After a few moments, she sighed unhappily. 

“What?” he asked. 

She shifted closer, licked her lips. “I was hoping there would be a spell,” she said. “To help you regain your memories. Maybe even your power.”

He smiled, rueful. “How easy that would be.”

“It has helped me in the past. When I’ve been in need,” she explained, nodding towards the book. “But I’m beginning to get the sense that it’s as stubborn as Penny White.” 

“Who is Penny White?”

“Mildred’s good-for-nothing hinny,” Dana explained. “I opened the gate when I ran, freed every animal I could, but that lump’s probably still glued there, hollering for dinner.” 

Fox chuckled and reached out to wrap his hand around her wrist. She dropped the spell book back into her satchel and turned her hand over in his, lacing their fingers together once again. 

“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. 

“Don’t be.” 

Dana squeezed his hand. “You deserve to know your past, Fox. You deserve to know who you are.” She shifted, leaning a little closer. “So do I. It’s something we share.”

He let her words settle in his chest, grounding him.

“So we’re both connected to the prophecy the Dark Mage spoke of.” He watched as she took a deep breath, tilted her chin to her shoulder. “Perhaps this isn’t just your story after all,” he went on. “But ours.”

Her eyes shone in the firelight. 

“Everything has to be connected,” she nodded. “The Dreyn. The Dark Mage. All of the things that he said—” A look washed over her face, like she’d only just considered something. “What did the Overseer tell you?” she asked. “He obviously knows far more than—”

Anger overtook him. Anger at the Overseer. The frustration of not knowing pulling at already frayed nerves. He squeezed her hand and then rose to his feet, suddenly too irritated to stay seated a moment longer. 

“I asked the Overseer,” he growled. “To tell me who I was. But he only said I wasn’t ready yet.”

“Do you think he knows?”

Fox hesitated, considering the question. “Yes. But he’s waiting. For what, I don’t know.”

Dana blinked up at him. “Do you think he survived… whatever it was we left behind?” 

His anger veered ever so slightly toward concern. The man may be withholding important information, but he had helped both Fox and Dana. At great cost to himself. 

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I hope he did. Because I have questions for him.” 

“About who you are?” 

“About who we both are,” he answered, looking at her levelly. 

Her gaze faltered under his. 

“The Heir of Light,” she said, her voice quiet, repeating the words of the Dark Mage. 

Fox nodded. 

“The last,” he said. 

Dana’s hand reached for Bite, though her eyes remained on the fire. It didn’t seem a conscious action. 

“The prophecy he spoke of… He seemed to think I was a threat to him.”

“Yes,” Fox said, lowering himself back down so that they were on the same level. “He seemed sure of it. Like he’s spent his life preparing for it.” He was quiet for a moment. “Do you think it’s true?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if it is… if I’m the last… maybe my mother was the one before me.”

“She must’ve known something,” Fox said. “Why else would she hide you?”

Dana looked down at the blade in her hands. “She left me with people who didn’t know what I was. But maybe that was the point. Maybe it was the only way to keep me safe.”

“She was protecting you,” Fox said softly.

Dana nodded. 

Her voice faltered, then steadied. “I want to know who she was. If she’s still alive.”

“She saved you,” Fox said. “That’s a start.”

Dana gave a quiet hum of agreement, then added, “And that thing in the jail—the Dreyn. It wasn’t supposed to be there. The Dark Mage was surprised to see it.” She shuddered with the memory. “It drained me,” she whispered. “Took my magic. My strength. I think… I think if it had kept going, it would’ve killed me.”

Fox’s jaw clenched.

“It wasn’t just pain. It was a hollowing. Like it was pulling the magic out of me, stripping it down to nothing.” She looked up at him. “If that creature is loose now—if there are more like it…”

“Then the world’s even more dangerous than it used to be.”

She nodded.

“And then there’s you,” Dana added softly. “You cast that protective spell.”

Fox swallowed tightly.

“It took something from you when I did it. I’m sorry.”

“No,” she said quickly and placing her hand on his chest. “You did what you had to do. You protected me.”

His eyes searched hers. “But it drew from you. Through our bond.”

She hesitated. “Then maybe it’s stronger than either of us thought.”

Under Fox’s skin, the bond seemed to shift and surge with its own strange gravity, and he knew she felt it too. It moved between them like water in a rockbound inlet, waves ricocheting off unseen walls, a ceaseless back-and-forth that gathered its own momentum and would not still.

The sky was beginning to lighten. He would be changing soon, whittled down and carved back into something small and earthbound—a creature too far from her warmth, stripped of the limbs that could enfold her against his chest, the feel of her body pressed to his slipping away with the dawn. He covered her hand in his own and leaned his head forward, lightly touching his forehead to hers. 

“Dana,” he whispered. 

He felt her pull back slightly from him. 

When he opened his eyes, he met hers looking back. There was the faintest spark of gold in them, there one moment, gone the next. Then her eyes drifted shut and she closed the little distance between them, pressing her lips into his. 

All thought, all worry, all the weight of unknowing disappeared when their mouths met, leaving only the warmth of her kiss. Her tongue sought his, languid as the morning tide, pulling him under in a way that felt both inevitable and entirely new. His hand found her cheek, thumb brushing over soft skin, and she leaned into it, deepening the kiss with a need that matched his own. Time slipped loose around them, everything else falling away until there was nothing but breath and heat and the fragile, desperate certainty of her mouth on his.

But then, behind them, the crack of a branch from not far beyond the circle of light cast by their fire. 

They broke apart, leaping to their feet. In Dana’s hand, Bite was already aloft, at fighting ready. 

He scanned the tree line, every muscle coiled, certain the mage they’d been fleeing would emerge from the shadows. But then the firelight flickered over something else—a stag, a single shining eye catching the glow as it lifted its head, mouth still working the tender leaves it had pulled from the forest floor. It studied them for a breath, then slipped silently back into the night.

Fox let out the breath he’d been holding, a shaky huff of relief. He turned to Dana, half ready to laugh at their own nerves—but the sound died in his throat. She wasn’t watching the place where the deer had vanished. Nor was she looking at him.

Her gaze was fixed on the blade in her hands, eyes wide.

“Dana?” he asked, cautious now.

Slowly, she looked up at him, wonder dawning across her face. Her voice was hushed, reverent.

“North,” she whispered. “For what seeks you.”

He blinked, trying to make sense of it, but before he could speak, she swallowed hard and said, almost disbelieving—

“Fox… I can read the blade.”

Notes:

I've had one of the worst weeks on record. Just one kick in the tits after another. Thanks for sticking with me.

An extra thanks to my betas.

Chapter 49

Notes:

As always, your comments keep me writing. Even moreso these days.

​​​“You can… read them?” Fox said. 

Dana didn’t answer, instead, she knelt down closer to the fire where the light was better and turned Bite point-down into the dirt at her feet so that she could see it, looking like a knight making a vow to her king. She studied the small sword for another moment and then flipped it over to look at the other side. 

Fox knelt beside her. 

“Dana?” he said softly. 

She looked up at him and then lifted Bite, handing it to him. 

The blade caught the firelight, and the runes that were upon it seemed to glow in the light.

“North for what seeks you,” he read aloud, their bond mark tingling as he spoke. 

Dana pressed her lips together, then said. “Flip it.”

He turned the small sword over. 

“Look beside you for what you seek.” He turned to look at her.

“Look beside you for what you seek,” she repeated, her words weighted with unspoken significance. “North for what seeks you.”

“What does it mean?” Fox said breathlessly. 

“It means,” said a voice from close by. “That you’re ready to cross the Veil.”

***

Dana jumped at the sound of the voice, twisting fast, Bite already raised.

At the edge of the circle stood an old man. Stooped and thin as winter branches, his grey robes hung loose around his frame, and he leaned heavily on a staff that seemed to hold him up more than he held it.

Fox recognized him a breath before she did. He stepped forward, his anger dissipating, as alarm and disbelief flickered across his face.

“Are you—what happened?”

The Overseer lifted one hand in reassurance and moved slowly closer, lowering himself onto the trunk of a nearby windfall with a weary sigh, the moth fluttering silently at his elbow. The fire painted deep lines on his face, age etched in places where it hadn’t been before. Overhead, the raven shifted on her branch, feathers rustling, watching them all with her bright, sharp eyes.

Fox crouched closer, concern creasing his brow. “You don’t look well.”

The Overseer gave a thin, humorless smile.

“I believe you mean I look old,” he said. 

Fox exchanged a look with Dana, a flicker of unease passing between them.

The Overseer shifted slightly, wincing as though the act of sitting upright cost him something. His fingers tightened briefly around the head of his staff before he spoke again.

“Every time I use my power, I spend myself,” he went on. “Years, all at once, burned like kindling.” He stared into the flames again, eyes dimmed but steady. “My magic is finite, boy. When it’s gone, so am I.”

Fox swallowed, glanced up briefly at Dana—and then back at the Overseer. He had sacrificed much to help them.

“What happened back there?” Fox asked. 

“The Dark Mage. We fought the Dreyn side by side, if you can believe it,” the old man said, voice rasped with exhaustion. “His sword burned dark as pitch, and still the thing only flinched. I used more power than I should have just to keep it from draining us, and it still wouldn’t die.” He shifted, wincing again, as though the memory weighed on his bones.

Inside Dana, fear turned tight and hot.

“The Dreyn fled,” he went on. “Wounded, hungry, but not dead. The horse saw to my escape. Bore me far enough to reach your track, then left me and went back to its rider.”

Fox flinched. “In the village,” he said. “As we were trying to get away. You helped that creature. The Dark Mage’s stallion.”

Dana swallowed thickly and could feel a different kind of tension rising in Fox, his emotion swirling up through their bond as a cool breeze sweeps into a hot kitchen.

“I helped his familiar,” the Overseer corrected, quiet but firm. “As I do.”

Dana’s gaze darted between them, fingers tightening on Bite—something in the way Fox’s fists clenched at his sides made her stomach knot tighter.

“Helping him helps the Dark Mage,” Fox hissed.

The Overseer only shook his head, weary.  “Not every familiar has the bond you do. That stallion is a proud creature, bound to a master who sees him as little more than a weapon. I offered him freedom. He refused… but he did not betray your path.”

Dana had questions of her own, but the tension between the Overseer and Fox made the air feel heavy and she held her tongue. 

The raven swooped down from her perch, landing on the ground near the fire. Her black eyes fixed on Fox, then slid to Dana, glinting like polished stone.

“The world binds more than masters do,” she said, blinking. “Threads tug unseen, and not even a witch can cut them all.”

Dana felt a chill trace over her skin, though the fire burned bright. Perhaps fate isn’t a chain or a blessing, she thought, just threads pulling two people together, no matter how far apart they start.

She glanced at Fox, but he was staring frankly at the raven, his breath coming in short pants. 

She stepped forward. 

“Why are you here?” she finally spoke. “Why do you help us?”

“I help familiars,” the Overseer said, shrugging. “As I promised my witch I would.”

Fox shook his head slowly, frustration coiling tighter in his voice. “No. There’s more to it than that.” He looked between the Overseer and the raven, his jaw tight. “You drop hints, riddles—threads you say are binding—but you never tell us what they are. You know something about all of this, about me, about Dana, and you just sit there, watching.” His breath caught, raw anger scraping his throat. “You lord the knowing over us while we stumble blind.”

The Overseer’s eyes narrowed, his own temper flaring to life. “Think you know everything, do you?”

“I know nothing!” Fox snapped, rising to his feet now, the words spilling hot and sharp. “I have no memory. Only a compulsion to serve this witch.” 

Dana felt her breath hitch in her chest, but Fox had already built up a head of steam and was finally releasing it.

“And you!” He pointed an angry fist at the Overseer. “You with your vague speeches and hints and half-truths. The heir of Light. The last. The prophecy. We know nothing of these things! Because you have told us nothing! A help? Hah!”

Fox’s anger left the air crackling, his chest heaving as the last words spat out of him. Even the fire seemed to gutter under the weight of his fury.

The Overseer regarded him for a long, unreadable moment. 

“You fight with the Dark Mage though he wants Dana dead,” Fox pressed, his voice sharp, demanding. “You keep things from us. Tell us it’s not yet time to know them. Why?”

The Overseer’s gaze, old and unblinking, settled on him. “Because the future has been written,” he said at last. “Many paths lead toward it. And he must be alive to tread it. As must you. This is not the time for your confrontation. That will come.”

Beside her, Fox paled. Dana shifted uneasily, moving Bite to her other hand. “How do you know this?” she asked, hesitant but unable to stay silent.

The Overseer’s eyes seemed to dim with memory, his voice lowering. “My witch was a seer,” he said. “A woman unmatched in her gift. She foresaw all of this. Every choice, every thread. And if we want to save the magical world, if we want to save its future—your future—we must all walk the One Path.”

Fox stared at him, the firelight throwing sharp lines across his face. His jaw worked as if he had more to say, more to throw at the old man, but no words came.

“And what is the One Path?” Dana asked. “Where does it lead?” 

“North of the Veil,” the Overseer said. 

“So you said when you stepped into our firelight,” Fox said, glancing at Bite. “What do the words on the blade mean?”

“What do they say?” the Overseer asked. 

Dana could see Fox’s exasperation building and put a calming hand on his arm. 

“Look beside you for what you seek,” she read. “North for what seeks you.”

“What else does it say?” 

Dana felt her brow furrow in a chevron of confusion.

“On the hilt, lass,” the Overseer said. 

She looked to the hilt. The runes there, she still couldn’t read. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. 

The Overseer’s gaze flicked to where her hand rested on Fox’s arm. 

“You will,” he said.

***

A breeze stirred the ashes at the fire’s edge, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and smoke. Beyond the small circle of warmth, the forest was shifting, the deep black of night thinning toward slate grey. The first hints of dawn threaded between the branches, quiet but relentless, and Dana felt a tight pull in her chest.

If both the Dark Mage and the Dreyn were still out there, they couldn’t linger a moment longer.

Her fingers tightened on Fox’s arm, grounding herself against the tension still humming through him. He stood beside her, gaze locked on the Overseer, his shoulders rigid, every muscle tight with the effort of holding himself still. 

The Overseer leaned heavily on his staff as he pushed himself upright. “We should move,” he said, voice rough, but steady enough. “North. The Veil isn’t far now.”

Dana glanced up at Fox. For a moment, she thought he might refuse. Tell the Overseer that he could take his staff and put it in a rather indelicate position and that they’d find their own way. But when his eyes met hers, they were weary but determined, and he gave a sharp nod. 

Together they bent to scatter the fire, smothering the last embers until only smoke coiled low and thin over the earth. Overhead, the raven launched skyward with a soft beat of wings, vanishing into the paling dark.

The Overseer waited until they were ready, his presence a watchful presence behind them. When they finally turned north, the horizon was already beginning to smolder with light.

***

Daylight spread through the thinning trees as they walked, the mist slowly lifting off the forest floor. The path began to rise, and as Dana crested a small ridge, the trees opened just enough for her to see the jagged cliffs to the north. Beyond them, snow-capped mountains rose like teeth into the pale morning sky, their icy ridges stark against the sunlight. The sight made her chest tighten. They were impossibly far, brutal in their promise of cold and danger.

Dana’s fingers curled around Bite’s hilt as they walked, her eyes falling again and again to the runes. Look beside you for what you seek. Her gaze slid to Fox, padding behind her, next to the Overseer, tail brushing low to the ground. Was that what the blade meant? That the answer she’d been chasing was already with her? Or was it something else—someone else—they hadn’t met yet?

Her stomach knotted. And the other words… North for what seeks you. That one felt heavier, darker, like a pull she couldn’t see and couldn’t escape. Something—or someone—was waiting for her out there. Hunting her, maybe. The Dark Mage. The Dreyn. 

She tightened her grip on the blade, as if the pressure of her fingers could squeeze meaning out of the metal. A warning or a promise, she couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

The raven glided ahead, wings whispering through the air before it hopped on a low branch beside her, keeping pace as she walked. Its dark eyes fixed on her, unblinking, as though it could see the weight of her thoughts laid bare. The silence stretched for a few steps, the crunch of leaves and the faint snap of twigs underfoot filling the space between them.

Finally, Dana drew a breath, the cold air stinging her lungs. “Is Silas well?” she asked, voice barely above a murmur.

“He will heal,” the raven replied, voice calm as water in a still pool. Dana would have felt better if she could have seen her friend with her own eyes, but she had to trust what the raven said was true. 

She hesitated, glancing again at the distant peaks. “Silas,” she said, “spoke of the Veil. What do you know of it?”

“It is the boundary of the land of magic,” the raven said. “Only those with power may cross it.”

“What is it like?” Dana asked.

There was a pause, then a faint shift in the raven’s tone, almost like a smile. “You’ll see.”

“Have you been across it?”

“I lived above it with my mage for many years.”

Dana frowned slightly, her hand brushing Bite’s hilt as she asked, “Who was your mage?”

“A mage of dark magic.”

“Was he… bad?” The word slipped out before she could stop it.

“No magic is all bad. Nor all good,” the raven said, her feathers lifting and settling. “The two schools are merely different sides of the same coin, though those who practice them may tell you otherwise.”

Dana let that sink in before murmuring, “How did you find your mage?”

“He found me,” the raven said. “I was injured. He healed me and asked me into his service.”

“How so?”

“The witch or mage chooses their familiar. The familiar chooses back.”

The words landed oddly in Dana’s chest. She hadn’t chosen Fox. As far as she knew, Fox hadn’t chosen her, either—not really. They had been bound before they’d even met.

The raven seemed to sense her unease. “The bond between witch and familiar is as different as the witches themselves,” she said softly. “Fear not.”

Dana glanced over her shoulder. Fox padded quietly behind her, the Overseer and the moth following a few paces back. Their presence was comforting, but the shadow of the mountains looming in the distance still filled her with dread.

They reached a small clearing, and the air grew heavy, charged with that strange hush Dana remembered from the glade where she and Fox had first found the calling stone. The Overseer moved past them, planting his staff in the leaf-strewn earth as his gaze fixed on the snow-tipped peaks.

“The Veil lies beyond those mountains,” he said, his voice roughened with fatigue but certain.

Fox’s ears flicked back, his tail lashing once. “You said it was close now,” he growled, frustration biting at the edges of his words.

Dana stared at the distant ridges, her heart sinking. How could they possibly hike through all that? The journey looked endless, pitiless in their promise of cold and danger. They would freeze before they even reached the foothills.

The Overseer turned, the faintest trace of a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Not everything is as it seems.”

He set the staff firmly into the ground. Power thrummed outward in a green ripple, making the leaves stir and the air shimmer. Then, with a sound like tearing silk, a tall, arched portal split the space before them, revealing the mountains up close on the other side. Snow swirled in the frigid wind that gusted through, biting into Dana’s skin and frosting the leaves at her boots.

“The way north awaits,” the Overseer said, his voice carrying over the sudden roar of winter air spilling into the autumn hollow.

 

Chapter 50

Notes:

Your comments are the only thing keeping me going right now. Thank you SO much for all of you leaving them!

The portal pulsed faintly behind them, the last threads of green light bleeding away into the burnished forest beyond it. Ahead, the world was white and sharp-edged, snow swirling in a relentless wind that bit at Dana’s cheeks and clawed through her cloak.

She kept her hand on the hilt of Bite as she tried to keep her balance, each step sinking into uneven drifts as they trudged into the mountains. The air tasted thin here, every breath crisp and stinging. Beyond a few yards, the wind blurred everything to shifting shadow and white haze, as if the mountains themselves were hiding.

Fox padded silently ahead, tail low, and she felt a pang of lonesomeness for the warmth of his hand in hers.

The cold lived both without and within, a different kind of chill settling in her chest. The Dreyn was still out there, hungry for magic and impossible to kill. The Dark Mage had seen her face, knew more about her than she did. Neither of them would stop until they had what they wanted.

Dana tightened her grip on the blade’s hilt and tried to keep her eyes on  the Overseer’s back as he led them higher into the peaks. Snow whirled around him, catching on his grey robes, eyes squinting against the assault. She wanted to ask where he was taking them, how far this journey went, what waited at the end of it—but the bite of the wind drove the words back down her throat, freezing them before they could form..

The wind whipped up through her cloak. She reached up to pull the hood up and over her head, shivering.

“Are you well?” Fox’s voice broke through her concentration, concern for her bleeding through their bond. He had paused from where he trotted lightly on top of the crust of snow, one paw curled back.

“I’m cold,” Dana answered. She didn’t have the lithe body of a woodland creature and her boots sank deeply into the snow with each step. Cold was creeping in, and wet. 

Fox turned to the Overseer and spoke to the group, his words sharp and incredulous. “We’re not prepared for this,” he said, as snow began to build up on his coat, sticking to the fringe of hair along his sides and back. “No supplies, no proper clothes, no way to survive a mountain crossing. How are we supposed to make it through the Veil like this?”

The Overseer turned his gaze and lifted his staff, pointing ahead to where the raven circled in the snow-laden sky. She let out a single harsh caw before tucking her wings and diving toward the base of a looming cliff face. Dana narrowed her eyes, following the bird’s path. There—a darker patch of stone half-hidden in shadow, a narrow fissure where rock met ice.

As they drew closer, the world seemed to hush. The wind dulled, snowflakes falling slower in the air, seeming to hang in the sky unnaturally. Even the mountain felt like it was holding its breath, waiting. Dana’s pulse picked up, an odd weight settling in her stomach as the raven vanished through the crack without hesitation.

The Overseer didn’t slow. His staff thudded softly against the frozen ground as he passed through the shadow of the cliff and gestured them onward. Fox glanced back at Dana, uncertainty rolling down their bond, but she took a step forward anyway, unable to stop herself.

They slipped into the fissure one after another, the cold rock brushing close on either side, the air verging and expectant. A faint shimmer hung in the narrow gap, like moonlight caught on invisible threads, and Dana felt it ripple over her skin as she passed through.

With her next step, the world changed. 

Light flooded her vision—golden and so bright it blurred the edges of everything. The bite of the wind vanished. Warm, damp air wrapped around her, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and green life. Somewhere above, birds sang, their voices clear and strange music carried on a current.

As the glare eased and her eyes adjusted, the shapes around her sharpened into focus. Towering trees arched high overhead, their trunks streaked with luminous patches of lichen, leaves whispering in colors that seemed to shift with the light. Between them stretched a wide meadow, its far edge lost in a haze of silver mist, with shifting greens and bright, untamed hues that shimmered like frost on a windowpane.

Underfoot, the ground was soft and loamy, carpets of moss spreading out like the fingers of a lake until they came up against a shore bright with flowers. Blooms were everywhere, green spikes coming up out of the ground, the tops heavy with petals of every color—tight knots of dahlias, thornless roses, spikes of larkspur, purple as the light of pre-dawn. Below the Veil it had been autumn, dead leaves choking the ground, but here it was spring.

Dana’s step locked in surprise, breath catching in her throat as the full beauty of the place struck her. Colors so vivid they almost seemed to glow pressed in from every side, each detail impossibly sharp. Behind her, Fox padded out of the fissure and stopped short, his fur lifting slightly at the touch of strange magic humming in the air.

Dana stood rooted, the moss soft beneath her boots, eyes sweeping the glade. The honey-bright blossoms swayed gently in a breeze that kissed her face, and a faint shimmer hung in the air as if the light itself were alive. After the frozen bite of the mountain, it was like stepping straight into a dream.

Behind her, the fissure gaped dark and narrow, a jagged shadow between two slabs of stone. Snow still whirled in the world beyond it, visible through the opening, yet the place where Dana stood was untouched by frost. It was as if the crack were a seam between seasons—winter on one side, endless spring on the other.

Fox padded to her side, his fur brushing her leg, ears flicked forward and nose twitching. The bond between them thrummed brighter here, alive in a way that made her skin prickle. She reached down, fingers sliding through his coat that was wet with snowmelt, wetting her palm.

Ahead of them, the Overseer stepped fully into the meadow, his staff sinking slightly into the soft earth. The moth clung to his shoulder, wings quivering as though it too felt the hum in the air. The raven wheeled above them once, then landed on a flowering branch ahead, feathers stark against the riot of color.

Dana turned slowly in place, taking it all in. 

Fox tilted his head. There was a pressing feeling coursing between them—like they both wanted to speak but didn’t have the words. 

The Overseer’s voice came low and reverent. “Welcome to Highveil,” he said, turning towards them. “You’ve come home.”

***

They left the meadow behind at an unhurried pace, the Overseer leading them along a narrow road that wound between stands of luminous-trunked trees and low, rolling hills. Overhead, the light shifted slowly, deepening from gold to the long-angled glow of late afternoon. Shadows stretched across the path, and the air grew slightly cooler, laced with the scent of woodsmoke.

Signs of life dotted the land, though they felt… thinned. An orchard heavy with blossom, but only a handful of trees tended. A hayfield edged with wildflowers, no scythes or carts in sight. Houses crouched on the hillsides, some with fresh thatch, others sagging into the earth. It wasn’t deserted, but the spaces between people seemed wider than they should have been.

Every so often, some flicker of strangeness would catch her eye—a bird the size of her forearm gliding overhead with feathers that shimmered green to gold; a cluster of flowers that turned to follow them as they passed; a low stone bridge built without mortar, its arch so perfect it might have grown from the earth. 

Fox stayed close to her side, his tail occasionally brushing her leg. The bond between them felt more intense here, more true, like a warm hand resting at her lower back.

When the road crested a hill, the raven appeared overhead, her shadow gliding over the grass before she swooped down to land on the Overseer’s staff.

“There’s a familiar nearby,” she said. “Its magic is tangled—fading in places where it should be strong. It needs help.”

The Overseer frowned. “That can mean many things. We’ll have to see for ourselves.”

Fox’s ears pricked, and Dana felt the ripple of alertness from him.

“It may be nothing,” the Overseer said, “but better we tend to it now than find trouble later.”

The moth rose from his shoulder in a slow spiral, following the raven as she banked away toward a stand of tall grass and wildflowers at the base of the hill. The Overseer followed at a steady pace, his grey robes brushing the seed heads.

“Wait for us on the road,” he told Dana without looking back. “We won’t be long.”

Dana watched them go until the grass swallowed the glint of his staff, leaving only the hum of insects and the warm hush of the afternoon. 

Fox stayed standing for a moment, tail swishing idly, before circling once and settling beside her. She let the quiet stretch, listening to the faint rush of wind in the high branches.

“The Overseer said we were home. Does any of this bring anything back to you?” she asked at last. It felt easier to speak to him through their bond than it had below the Veil, the words slipping between them like water down a stream. 

Fox’s ears twitched. “In the way that a half-forgotten dream does,” he said after a pause. “Shapes, scents… they feel close, but when I reach for them, they slip away.”

She studied him, fingers absently combing through the thick ruff of fur at his neck. “Not even the plants? The air? Anything?”

“It’s all different, and yet—” he stopped, eyes drifting toward the hills where the Overseer had gone. “Something in it stirs a part of me I can’t name. Like I’ve walked here before, but on a road just beyond the next rise.”

“So it’s recognizable,” Dana said, her grip tightening slightly in his fur. “From before… this.” 

Fox’s gaze flicked back to hers, gold and steady. “Yes. And maybe the road ahead will bring it back to me.” His tail thumped once against the moss. 

The words settled warm between them, softening the weight in her chest. She leaned, eyes following the slow drift of a cloud across the pale sky, and let herself simply breathe.

The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of something sweet from the meadow they’d left behind. Fox rested his chin on his paws, his eyes half-lidded but alert in the dappled light.

Dana’s gaze wandered over the road, the grass stirred by wind, the place where the Overseer had vanished. The stillness pressed in, deep enough that it made her restless. Her hands found the strap of her pack, fingers curling in the worn leather.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the distance from everything familiar. But suddenly she wanted to see what she still carried from the world below the Veil.

Dana shifted her pack into her lap and loosened the flap. She hadn’t looked inside since they’d left the apothecary, but the thought of finding something familiar—anything from before the mountain—felt grounding.

Her fingers brushed the leather of her spellbook, the smooth weight of Bite’s scabbard, the folded cloth bundle of herbs from Silas. Beneath those lay the small braid of rivergrass he’d given her, still faintly green.

Something hard rolled against her palm. She drew it out.

The calling stone.

Its pale surface was dulled with road dust, but the leather cord Fox had tied around it was still in place. She turned it over in her fingers, remembering the weight of it in her pocket, its occasional glow, the moment they’d leapt the falls together.

Fox’s ears pricked, his golden eyes flicking from the stone to her face. “The calling stone,” he said.

She nodded, brushing a thumb over the cord.

Bootsteps whispered over the moss. The Overseer was returning along the roadside, the raven winging low beside him, the moth clinging to his shoulder.

“All well?” Fox asked as the Overseer drew near.

“It will find its way home,” the Overseer said. “Its magic was a touch… tangled. Strange, but nothing lasting.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the meadow before settling on the stone in Dana’s hand.

“So,” he said quietly, “you still carry it.”

Dana hesitated. “I found it at the bottom of my pack. Can you explain it to me? What it does? How the Dark Mage used it, what you did to this one?”

The Overseer stepped closer, planting the tip of his staff in the earth. “It does many things, depending on who holds it. For a mage, it is a tether—a way to call what is theirs back to them, or to find it again if it’s lost.”

Fox’s ears twitched, his gaze sharpening. “Could he use it against us?”

“Yes,” the Overseer said evenly. “He could use it to find Dana. He can give a stone to agents, like Alexander—people he’s bewitched or persuaded into serving him. They use it to call him when they’ve found what he sent them after. Or he can use it himself, reaching through the tether to see where it leads. To control those who carry it. It calls to those who are magical,” he went on. “As I mentioned, he left many below the Veil. Hoping to find you.” With this, his eyes fell on Dana and she shifted uncomfortably. 

“And the etching you put on it?” she asked. 

“It stops him from being able to see. Alexander tried to use one in the apothecary — to walk beyond the protection wards placed there.”

Dana’s stomach tightened. “So the Dark Mage would have seen me there?”

“More than seen,” the Overseer said. “He is extremely powerful. More than most. He could have taken hold of any magic within reach. The runes I placed upon it stop that.”

She glanced down at the stone in her palm, then at Fox. “Except… that’s not true, is it. Not always.”

Fox’s head turned toward her, ears high. “What do you mean?”

She wet her lips. “Beneath the falls right before we jumped… That night by the fire. Weeks ago. Your eyes went cold, like ice had glazed over them, and you said something strange—‘One will fall.’”

Fox blinked at her, confusion plain. “I never—”

“You did,” she said firmly. “And the stone in my pocket burned so hot I could barely hold it. It glowed green—brighter than I’ve ever seen—and it faded only when I stepped away from you.”

The Overseer froze. His hand tightened on the carved shaft of his staff, a flicker of something sharp and knowing in his eyes before he masked it. “When was this?”

“Before the bonded spell,” Dana said.

“That shouldn’t be possible.” The words came out clipped, almost too fast, before he smoothed them. “The etching blocks a call entirely.”

Fox’s tail flicked once. “So what happened?”

The Overseer’s gaze lingered on him a fraction too long, assessing, measuring. “Something we will… watch for.”

“Should I get rid of the stone?” Dana asked. She had felt an odd compunction to pick it up when they had first found it, but maybe that was the magic of the Dark Mage calling to her through the stone itself. 

“Nay,” the Overseer said. “It may yet prove useful.”

He turned away, but the set of his shoulders was tense, and the air between them felt tighter than before—as if an unseen thread had been plucked, and all three of them could still feel it vibrating.

Notes:

Monstrous thanks to my betas for their patience and quick work! Anna, Kim and Becca, you guys have been SO great!

Chapter 51

Notes:

Your comments! Thank you so so much!

The road curved between fresh green fields, the tender shoots swaying in a mild breeze. Wildflowers freckled the ditches in pale yellows and soft blues, the delicate lace of wild carrot blossoms dancing on air that carried the damp-sweet scent of turned earth. In the distance, bees moved lazily between the first blossoms of the hedgerows, their hum a low, steady counterpoint to the rustle of grasses along the swale.

Fox padded at Dana’s side, his paws soundless on the packed dirt. The Overseer walked a little ahead, the soft tap of his staff keeping time with their steps.

“Where are we going?” Fox asked, his voice low. “I assume you have a destination.”

“I do,” the Overseer replied, though he didn’t elaborate.

The sun had begun its slow descent, shadows stretching long across the road.

“There is a village ahead,” he said after a moment. “An inn. A good place to sleep tonight.”

He glanced back, his eyes passing briefly over Fox before resting on Dana’s wrist as she absently rubbed at the bond mark.

“How does the bond feel above the Veil?” he asked.

“Easier,” she said. “It’s easier to connect to him here.”

He nodded, as if considering that. “Do you feel it even when you’re not touching?”

“Yes… sometimes.”

“And when you are?” His gaze lingered, just for a heartbeat, on the space between her hand and Fox’s ruffled shoulder.

Dana frowned slightly. “Stronger.”

He gave the smallest smile, nodding.

She glanced at him, but he had already turned his eyes back to the road.

Ahead, a burst of starlings rose from the fields, the flock curling and tumbling through the sky. The raven joined them for a single turn before catching an updraft and soaring higher.

***

Fox listened as the Overseer spoke to his witch.

Above the Veil, their bond was a live thing—quicker, stronger, impossible to ignore. His senses, already keen in this form, felt sharpened to a dangerous edge. A fox could read the air below the Veil well enough, but here the wind whispered to him in layers rich with secrets. The ground thrummed faintly beneath his paws, as if the earth’s pulse beat just under the surface, calling to him.

And Dana… she was everywhere. His awareness of her had collapsed inward, dense as a star, dragging him into her gravity. Not just through the bond, but through every point of contact: her fingers combing through the ruff at his neck, the measured pull of her breath. He could track the steady rise of her pulse in the hollow of her throat, watch the warm breeze tease the fine hairs along her arms. Her scent came to him in delicate strands—goldenrod pollen clinging to her sleeve, the faint oil in her hair, the salt-bright edge of her breath. Beneath it all was a deeper, darker note, purling from her center. It wound through him like a coiled bowstring ready to loose.

“You’re very quiet,” she murmured through the bond, her voice brushing against his mind alone.

He shook his head—unable to tell her what he was thinking without crossing into indecency, yet unwilling to lie.

“The shadows grow long,” he said instead, voice low. “I’m eager to regain my human form.”

Her heartbeat skipped—barely enough for anyone else to notice, but to him it was thunder. Her breath shifted, that smallest shiver of awareness.

“As am I,” she answered.

His gaze caught hers, holding for a moment too long before he tore it away. Fox shook out his coat and padded ahead toward the village’s edge, where the Overseer had chosen to stop for the night—before he let himself dwell on how little the dark would hide.

***

The road sloped gently toward the village, the last stretch hemmed in by low stone walls gone mossy with age. The sun had already dipped low, painting the peaks in bronze and throwing long shadows across the fields. From a distance, the place looked lively enough—broad streets, tall houses with slate roofs, a market square at its heart. But as they drew closer, the stillness became impossible to ignore.

Shutters were drawn on many of the shops, their painted signs faded and peeling. A cobbler’s window was thick with dust, a single boot lying unfinished on the workbench inside. The flower boxes under the apothecary’s eaves had gone to seed. In the wide square, the stalls stood empty save for one, where an old woman sold early greens from a wicker basket, her eyes following them as they passed.

The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something older—a dry, brittle scent like parchment left too long in the sun. Birds called from the thatch, but no children’s laughter echoed in the streets. Even their footsteps seemed too loud.

“Where are all the people?” Dana asked.

“The magic above the Veil is dying,” the Overseer said. “There aren’t many left.”

Dana processed this, her gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sun sagged lower still, gilding the rooftops. Someday soon the sun might set on magic altogether, she thought—and that day might be closer than anyone dared to believe. She thought of the Dark Mage’s words: the last . Here, it was easier to believe them.

Fox padded close at her heel, his fur brushing her skirts. She kept her eyes ahead, but the thought nagged at her—what would they make of her here, walking in with a fox at her side? Below the Veil, it would have been unthinkable.

“Do you think it’s wise?” she murmured. “Me walking into a village with a fox following me?”

“They’ll notice you,” the Overseer said, his voice low but certain. “Not him. Above the Veil, it isn’t unusual for a familiar to walk openly with his witch.”

She glanced down at Fox. He flicked an ear at the word witch , but the warmth in their bond steadied her more than the Overseer’s reassurance.

They passed an open-fronted bakery where a single rack of loaves cooled in the window. The baker—a round man with forearms dusted in flour—nodded to them without surprise. Dana felt the hum of magic in him as they drew near, subtle but undeniable, like catching the scent of herbs in rising steam.

Here and there, she caught that same quiet presence in others—the woman sweeping the stoop of a tavern with a broom she didn’t need to touch, the stable boy who looked up from his work to nod politely while a set of bridles coiled themselves neatly on a peg behind him. No one stared. No one asked questions.

The inn stood at the far end of the square, its wide sign swinging gently in the evening breeze: The Starling and Crown . Just as Dana pulled open the door, the raven and Moth took flight, disappearing into the eaves above.

Inside, the timbers of the front hall gleamed dark with polish, but the benches by the door stood empty. The air was warm, scented faintly of rosemary and polished wood. Only a handful of patrons occupied the common room—a man in a deep green cloak nursing a steaming cup, an older woman by the hearth knitting as the fire burned in an unnaturally steady rhythm. All glanced up as Dana, Fox, and the Overseer stepped inside. All looked away again without comment, though their eyes lingered on the Overseer.

He let the door fall shut behind them, his gaze sweeping the room once before settling on Dana.

“This is where I leave you for the night,” he said.

Dana turned sharply. “You’re not staying?”

From the doorway behind him, the last light of the sun slanted through, gilding the side of his face and catching on the crystal of his staff.

“No,” he said, quiet but certain.

“Have you no coin? I have enough for all of us, or you could—”

“He’s not welcome here,” came a voice from across the room.

The innkeeper stepped out from behind the counter—a tall woman with pale hair drawn neatly back, her eyes a soft, unyielding grey.

“This is a village of Light,” she said. “If he wants a room, he’ll find one past the border.” The words held no malice, but there was no bending in them either.

Dana’s mouth opened to argue. “But he’s an old man—surely you can—”

A warm hand settled on her arm. She looked up to find the Overseer shaking his head.

“My flock and I will be fine,” he said.

“Then we’ll come with you—”

“No.” His tone was final.

“I don’t understand.”

“Lass.” He gave her arm a small squeeze. “Lay your head on a soft pillow this night. With the dawn will come answers—more than you may be ready for.”

He bent beside Fox, murmured something too low for her to catch, then straightened and walked into the fading light beyond the door without looking back.

“You’ll be wanting a room, then?” the innkeeper asked, her gaze shifting to Dana.

Dana hesitated, still staring at the doorway where the Overseer had gone. The street beyond lay in shadow now, the last edge of the sun gilding the rooftops in molten gold. His absence seemed to pull something out of the air—lightening it, yes, but leaving it emptier too. The thought of him being turned away simply because his magic ran Dark gnawed at her.

“Yes,” she said finally, turning back to the counter. “A room.”

The innkeeper gave a single nod and reached beneath the counter for a heavy iron key. “Up the stairs, second on the left. Supper’s still hot if you want it.”

Dana took the key, the cool metal biting against her palm, and crossed the common room without another glance at the patrons. 

They ascended the stairwell, footsteps muffled on the thick pile rugs that covered the steps.

She pushed open the door to her room and stepped inside, Fox padding in after her. Without turning around, she set her satchel down on the small table near the bed and toed off her boots, pulling her stockings with them.

“I didn’t realize Light and Dark kept to their own sides here,” she said, her tone sounding more uneasy than she meant it to be.

No answer.

She turned—and found Fox in human form, the last traces of gold from the window catching in his hair as he leaned back to close the door. The latch fell into place with a resounding snick.

The sound seemed to echo in the small room, and the air between them shifted—warmer, charged, as if the quiet outside had followed them in but changed its nature entirely.

Notes:

Monstrous thanks to my betas who work so hard and so quickly!!

Chapter 52

Notes:

You have all been SO PATIENT! I told you I was going to blister you with the slow burn... and now I bring the salve. Thank you for sticking with me. Y'all have EARNED this.

Thank you so so so so much for your comments. Truly life giving and keeping me writing.

​​The sound of the latch falling home lingered in the air, sharp against the hush.

Fox didn’t move from the door at first. He just stood there, watching her with a gaze that made her feel like he saw more than she wanted to show. The last light through the shutter slats banded his face in gold and shadow, marking the lines of his jaw, the sweep of his cheekbone.

Dana’s pulse kicked hard, though she kept her hands flat on the table beside her satchel. “You didn’t answer,” she said, her voice suddenly tremulous.

“I was… occupied,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling faintly.

She swallowed, suddenly aware of the smallness of the room—the narrow bed, the single washstand, the way the air seemed to press close around them. “Occupied with what?”

His eyes swept over her, slow, as if taking in every detail, before they lifted to meet hers again. “Deciding whether to lock the door.”

Her fingers tightened on her satchel. “And?”

He stepped toward her, relaxed, each movement deliberate enough that she felt it in the tightening space between them. “I decided I would.”

The warmth of their bond brushed against her like a slow exhale, curling through her ribs, under her skin. She could feel the shift in him—not the quicksilver playfulness he sometimes wore, but something heavier, more intent.

Fox crossed the space between them in two unhurried steps until he loomed over her, the size of him still surprising her, and he closed in until he seemed to fill the narrow room. He stopped just short of touching her, though every line of him promised that he could, that he would, if she gave him even the faintest leave.

The weight of the day pressed in from all sides: the strangeness of the world, the silent streets, the shuttered windows, the Overseer’s absence like a hollow in the air. But here—here it was only him.

Her pulse thudded, quick and certain.

Fox’s eyes swept over her face, lingering, reading, as though he could feel every beat of her heart through the weave of the bond. Then, with the smallest tilt of his head, he stepped even closer, and the space between them narrowed to a breath. His hand lifted, not quite touching her cheek, only hovering, the air between his skin and hers alive with heat.

Her body leaned toward him without permission, every nerve urging her forward.

But a thought that had been gnawing at her rose sharp and insistent, cutting through the thrum of want.

“Fox—wait.”

The word left her in a whisper, but it stilled him instantly. His hand dropped, though his eyes didn’t leave hers, still burning with that intent, tethered to her by something neither of them could name.

Dana pressed her palm flat against the table, grounding herself. “There’s something I need to ask you. Before… before any of this.” 

The bond shivered between them, his frustration muted but present—tempered by curiosity, by the steadiness she always found in him. 

“I worry,” she started, “that the decisions you make are not your own.”

He tilted his head, watching her, patient and waiting.

She took a breath and pressed on before she lost her nerve. “The way you became my familiar…” She faltered, then forced the words out. “The raven told me that a witch chooses her familiar, and her familiar chooses back. But I never chose you.”

His eyes stayed on hers, sharp. Searching.

“I choose you now,” she rushed to say, reaching out, fingers trembling, and caught his hand before she lost the courage. His palm was warm, callused, steady against her own. She clung to it like an anchor as she pressed on.

“But I fear… I fear your fealty to me, the depth of your feeling… What if someone has given you this life? This life that’s not your own. What if it’s that magic that’s endeared me to you?”

He studied her for a long moment.

“Dana,” he said at last, voice low. “How do you feel about me?”

“How do I—”

“The first words you said to me,” he cut in, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth, “were to drive me off. To be gone. ‘I have a shadow already! I’ve no need for a new one!’ ” He finished the memory in a teasing falsetto.

Despite herself, she smiled.

“Do you still wish me gone?” he asked softly.

She shook her head.

“Then you see,” he said softly, thumb brushing her knuckles. “Whatever magic brought me to your side, it was not enough to keep me there. You did that. Your courage. Your strength. Your resilience.” His gaze softened. “And your beauty.”

His hand slipped free only so he could lift it to her face, his palm warm against her cheek. She leaned into his touch.

“When we were separated,” he murmured, voice low, “the Overseer offered me my freedom.”

Her throat tightened. “From me?”

“From you,” he answered. “I didn’t take it.”

Dana leaned back slightly, though her hand tightened around his. “But that’s what I’m saying! The you—the whole you. The man I don’t know. The one who walks in sunlight. The one with memories and a past. The mage.” She swallowed hard. “What if he would choose something different? Some one different.”

Her gaze dropped to the mark on her wrist. She touched it lightly, and in answer, his own flared with soft light across his skin.

“And what if by marking you, I’ve doomed you to a life you didn’t choose? I couldn’t live with that.”

A fat tear slid down her cheek.

“But I do choose you,” he said softly, reaching up to wipe the tear away.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he leaned toward her, earnest, every line of him tight with conviction.

“I am bewitched,” he said. “By some power that stole my memory and tied me to you and to your service. But I can feel enough of myself, enough of what is still my own free will, to know that I would choose you anyway. When I regain my memory”—he lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles—“I will choose you then, too.”

Her breath broke. She launched herself into his arms, and he caught her easily, one arm cinched tight around her waist, the other cradling her head against his chest. For a moment she let herself sink into him, small and sheltered in the strength of his embrace.

But then she pulled back, blinking through tears, needing to look him in the eye. He let her go, reluctantly.

“You asked how I feel about you?” she whispered.

“You don’t have to—”

She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I love you,” she said simply. “Not because of the bond, or the magic, or the way you’ve saved me without thought or hesitation—but because you saw me before I even knew who I was. You never tried to control me or stop me from being who I am. You trusted me, challenged me, stayed when you didn’t have to. And somewhere along the way, that quiet, steady loyalty became the most certain thing in my life—the only certain thing.”

His eyes searched hers, overwhelmed with emotion. She shook her head faintly.

“If what you feel is anything like what I do—” she began, but before she could finish, his hands were on her face, cupping her cheeks with a reverence that left her trembling.

The moment hung suspended, air crystallizing between them. His eyes blazed—green as the luminous lichen in Highveil. He leaned in until his forehead pressed to hers.

“I would drown the world to slake your thirst,” he whispered, the words hooking into her very soul. And then his mouth was on hers.

***

The kiss seared her. There was no hesitation—no shyness, no restraint. His mouth claimed hers like it had always belonged there, and she met him with equal fervor, clutching at the linen of his tunic, her heart hammering so hard it shook through her bones.

His touch burned as well: one arm wrapped low around her back, pulling her flush against him, the other cradling the nape of her neck to better angle her to him. She melted into the heat of him, the solidity, the ferocity.

Her hands fluttered—up his face, down the strong line of his shoulders, across his waist. She didn’t know where to touch, only that she needed to, that instinct drove her to find more, to feel more.

She was so frazzled with indecision, a nervous laugh slipped from her. Fox pulled back at once, eyes darting to hers. She turned her gaze aside, shy, then back up to find the fire still banked in his.

“Dana,” he rasped, “how much do you—”

“I know what comes next,” she blurted, cheeks heating. 

She knew the mechanics—life on a farm taught one early. And Mildred had been frank, teaching her that there was no sin in desire, only the danger of letting someone else’s will eclipse her own. It was part of the reason she had turned from Alexander. With him, she had felt no true regard—only the urge to tame her, to keep her like some rare and lovely thing caught in his fist.

Still, knowing and doing were worlds apart, and with Fox standing before her, she felt the chasm between them yawning wide. A little thrill of fear tangled with want. Not fear of him—never that—but fear of what it meant to step fully into this choice.

Fox’s hands were steady, reverent, each movement an asking rather than a taking. And for the first time, she understood what Mildred had meant: the choice was hers, and she wanted.

Her eyes skimmed down him, lingering over the hard planes of his chest, the breath moving through him. She swallowed and smiled, embarrassed but not—not with him.

“Where do I put my hands?” she asked, laughing softly.

His expression stayed intense, unflinching. He stepped back just far enough to pull his tunic over his head and drop it aside. When he came back to her, his eyes were locked on hers, sharp as arrowheads.

“Wherever you damn well want,” he said, serious as a vow.

She reached forward, hands tracing the firm ridges of his chest, the warm skin, the faint scatter of hair beneath her fingertips. Down over the taut lines of his abdomen. He shivered under her touch, a sharp breath leaving him.

Curiosity guided her hand lower, to where the evidence of him pressed against the fabric of his stockings. She’d glimpsed boys at the river, seen the outlines of men in passing, but this—this was heat and weight and life. She brushed him lightly, skin against cloth, and he drew a hiss through his teeth.

“Like this?” she whispered.

His jaw tightened, voice low. “Yes. Like that.”

Then his mouth was back on hers, and she was aware of everything—the rough cadence of his breath, the heat of his body, the way his hands clutched her like he’d never let go. There was nothing delicate, nothing cautious—only truth, raw and unstoppable.

Fox’s mouth left hers and trailed down the column of her throat, a slow, searing path that stole her breath. Each brush of his lips, each scrape of his teeth, left her trembling. He nosed lower, into the hollow where her pulse hammered, then down to the edge of her bodice, breath hot against the fabric that hid her.

Her fingers fumbled for the clasp at her throat. The cloak slipped free, falling heavy to the floor. She reached back next, hands clumsy with urgency, searching for the knots of her laces. The harder she tried, the worse they shook.

Fox stilled against her, panting hard, his forehead pressing to her shoulder. She felt the change in him—the sharp hunger tempered by something softer, steadier.

His hand closed gently over hers. “Dana,” he rasped, voice rough but careful. “Let me.”

Her chest heaved, heat rising to her cheeks as she gave the smallest nod.

He worked at the ties with a patience she hadn’t expected, loosening each in turn until the bodice slackened. His fingers brushed the back of her shoulders as he slid the garment down and away, leaving her in her threadbare shift, the thin fabric nearly translucent in the candlelight.

She stood trembling before him, bare-shouldered, the rise and fall of her breath unsteady. Fox’s gaze swept over her with a veneration that made her knees weaken. The lean muscles of his bare chest caught shadow and light, every line of him alive with restrained force.

When his eyes met hers again, they were full—of heat, yes, but also of something that steadied her, something that made her lift her chin despite the way she shook.

And then he reached for her, slow and sure. 

The room was quiet but for the rasp of their breathing, the faint crackle of the fire in the room’s small hearth.

Fox’s fingers found her—the slope of her collarbone, the trembling curve of her shoulder. His fingers drifted down her arm, a featherlight stroke that raised gooseflesh in their wake. She shivered, though the air was warm.

Her shift was thin, worn soft from years of washing, and when his palm brushed her waist, she felt the heat of him as if nothing lay between. His breath hitched, rough and uneven, and he closed his eyes for a moment as though steadying himself.

Then he bent to her, his mouth closing slowly over the tender curve of her breast with a low, worshipful sound that went straight through her, as though he had touched something older than flesh—something secret and buried deep. She arched into him, and the hesitation in him shattered. His hands gripped, sure and hungry, while his lips found her nipple through the thin weave of her shift. The pull of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, sent a thrill racing over her skin, her nerves alight—flaming, fizzing—as the bond between them flared and tightened.

When he pulled back, she let forth a plaintive, whining sound she didn’t recognize, but his hand skimmed back up, fingers curling at the ribboned neckline of her shift. He toyed with the edge, testing, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t.

Instead, she raised her own hand, trembling, and tugged the ribbon loose herself. The fabric gaped, a bit of it wet from his mouth. 

Then she shrugged a shoulder and the garment fell away, and she stood there naked before him, the pebbled skin of her nipples pulling tight in anticipation. His chest rose sharply as he looked at her, not with hunger alone, but with awe—as though he’d never seen anything so dangerous and so precious at the same time.

“Dana,” he murmured, almost a prayer.

The bond stirred, a pulse of heat and ache that threaded through her ribs. She swayed into him, into the heat of his bare chest, and his arms came up around her at once, folding her in with a gentleness that nearly broke her.

Her face pressed against the hard line of his shoulder, she let out a shaky laugh that caught on a sob. He made a low sound—comfort, need, both—and tipped his head to press his mouth to her temple, her hair, her jaw, slow as though each kiss were sealing something eternal.

Her hands drifted along the skin of his shoulders, down along the slope of his rib cage until they encountered the top of his wool hose. He hissed against her skin, reaching down to still her hands. 

When his eyes found hers, he said only one word: “Bed.”

She nodded, throat too tight for words.

His hands were warm as they framed her waist, guiding her back a step at a time. The edge of the mattress caught her knees, and she sank onto it, the coarse sheets that covered it scraping her skin.

Fox lingered on his feet, gaze locked on hers, and in that span of stillness she watched his fingers go to the ties of his boots. The leather thudded softly to the floor, one and then the other. Then his hands slid higher, to the fastening of his wool hose. The sound of them pulling free was low, intimate, more startling to her than a footstep in an empty room.

Her breath caught as the hose joined the boots in a heap, leaving him in only a pair of pale linen braies that clung to him in the firelight. So little left between them. And through that thin cloth, she glimpsed her first true sight of a man’s desire, startling and undeniable, and it made her pulse leap.

When he came down to her, the shadow of his body closed over hers, the heat of him flooding the narrow space between them.

For a breathless heartbeat, they only looked at each other—her bare skin against rough linen, their bond thrumming so fiercely she thought it might split her open. Fox loomed over her, chest bare, eyes raking over her in a way that stole the breath from her lungs. Not greedy. Not careless. Devoted. He looked at her as though he were seeing something holy, something he’d never expected to be allowed to touch. The air between them seemed to hum with it, the bond thrumming through her blood until her skin prickled with heat.

Dana fought the urge to curl in on herself, to shield what little modesty she had left. Not from shame, but from the strangeness of being so wholly revealed, of standing bared before someone who saw her as no one ever had. But his gaze stopped her. Whatever he saw—whoever he saw—was enough to still the trembling in her limbs.

When he rolled toward her, the mattress dipped, the warmth of him pressing full along her side. His arm slid beneath her shoulders, drawing her against him until she could feel the thud of his heart, hard and unrelenting, against her breast. The length of him pressed to her hip, a solid weight through linen, impossible to ignore. She swallowed, her body lighting with equal parts wonder and nerves.

“Fox…” It was hardly more than a whisper, his name spilling from her lips like a plea.

He shifted, bracing on an elbow above her, his breath hot against her cheek. “Dana…” he answered in a murmur. She could tell he was holding back, but she didn’t want that. Every part of her cried for more.

She reached for him, fumbling at the edge of his braies. He caught her hand, briefly stilling it, then let go—granting her choice.

When she urged at the linen, he shed the last of it in one quick motion, tossing it to the floor. The breath caught in her throat. She’d thought she knew what to expect, but the reality of him—heavy and thick—made her cheeks flame, her belly clench with both shock and an aching need she hadn’t known she could feel.

Her hand fluttered, uncertain where to land. But then he was lowering himself again, docking himself between her knees, the weight of him covering her, the heat of bare skin to bare skin stealing away any last trace of hesitation.

Fox moved over her, careful, deliberate, bracing himself so she bore only as much of his weight as she wanted. Still, she felt every inch of him, his body fitted to hers like it had been carved for no other purpose. Her pulse drummed in her ears, her breath shallow as he settled between her thighs.

“Are you sure?” he rasped, the words trembling against her lips.

She nodded, though her throat was too tight for sound. Her hands rose, framing his face, and that was answer enough.

He took himself into his hand and rubbed the thick head of himself against her seam, coating it in the slip that pooled there. She looked down, watching, dazed, wondering how it would fit, how it would feel. She had seen coupling before, in Mildred’s fields, rough and instinctive, but this was something very different. 

Then their eyes met, and in the dark heat of his gaze she felt a promise—that he would not break her, that he would be patient, that he was hers.

When he eased into her, her body tensed—an ache sharp enough to draw a gasp. He stilled at once, forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged, waiting, giving her the moment. She clung to him, heart hammering, and then… slowly, the pain softened, made way for something deeper, fuller. She exhaled, her body opening, and when she whispered his name, he began to move.

The rhythm came halting at first, then surer, stronger, building between them until it filled the air like the pounding of a second heartbeat. The bond burned through her veins, brighter than fire, brighter than fear. Every touch of his hands, every drag of his mouth against her throat, every thrust of his hips—each fed into the pulsing current that tethered them.

If she thought she knew sorcery before, she was wrong. This—this—was magic.

Their breaths tangled, rough and desperate. She was lost in him—in the heat, in the weight, in the raw need that was hers as much as his. Her hips rose to meet him, her body learning him, chasing a feeling that seemed to hover just beyond reach.

And then, together, they crested.

The world shattered into light.

It burst from their joined bodies, sparking across her skin, flaring through her veins, the makeup of her blood changing. Magic ripped free like a storm, scattering in brilliant arcs that lit the rafters and made the very walls tremble. She cried out, clutching him, as the bond sealed—final, unbreakable, eternal.

Fox groaned her name, the sound raw and reverent, and collapsed against her, his body shuddering with the last tremors of release. Still the light poured from them, shimmering, weaving them into one.

Where their skin touched—his hand against her hip, her palm against his back—it glowed, soft and radiant, as though the fire of the stars themselves now lived beneath their flesh.

Dana lay breathless beneath him, dazed and awed, her body and magic both undone. She had never known such wonder. Never known such belonging.

And through it all, the bond sang in her blood—no longer a thread, but a blazing cord of light.

Notes:

ENDLESS thanks to Anna, Becca and Kim for making sure no one had three hands and did things too reverentially too many times. XOX

Chapter 53

Notes:

Your comments continue to keep me motivated, and my betas continue to do great things in spite of their own challenges. Love to you all.

Dana lay beneath him, her breath still ragged, her body trembling with the aftershocks. His weight pressed her down, heavy and grounding, yet she couldn’t bring herself to move. Not when every part of him still clung to her, his heartbeat a frantic echo of her own.

She lifted her hand to his cheek, just to touch him, but where her fingers brushed, a faint shimmer rose between their skins. Gold, soft and alive, as though light itself was seeping from their bond.

Her breath caught. She trailed her fingers along his jaw, down the curve of his shoulder, and the glow followed, spreading in slow tendrils that kissed across his chest before curling into her own skin.

“Fox,” she whispered, startled by the beauty of it.

His head lifted, eyes wide, reflecting that same light. He pressed his hand over hers, and the shimmer flared bright enough to make them both gasp—sparks running like quicksilver along their arms, down to where their bodies were still joined.

“It’s us,” he said softly, awed. Then, after a beat, rougher: “It’s the bond.”

A shiver went through her. Wonder, yes—but threaded with something sharper. This wasn’t just closeness. This was magic. Power. The kind of thing others might see, might want, might take.

She swallowed, her heart stumbling against her ribs. Still, she couldn’t look away.

“We glow when we touch,” she said in wonder. 

He nodded, marveling, and then his lips found hers again, and the light answered, swelling brighter, warming her from the inside out. She broke the kiss on a shaky laugh, pressing her forehead to his as his body softened and he slid out of her. “It grows brighter when we—”

“When we touch,” he finished for her, “with want.” His smile then faltered at the edges, like he, too, felt the weight of it. 

Then, with a low groan, he rolled to his side and pulled her with him, their bare skin sliding together, the glow blooming bright once more before softening into a faint pulse.

They lay tangled in each other’s arms, staring at the shimmer where their bodies met. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Inevitable.

She smoothed her hand across his chest, tracing idle circles. Wherever her fingers roamed, the shimmer followed, sparking faintly like fireflies in midsummer fields. She laughed under her breath, unable to help it, and pressed her palm flat over his heartbeat. “This is incredible,” she whispered, her words soft.

He turned his head, his lips brushing her hair as he answered. “I can’t tell if it’s us, or the magic, or both.” His voice was hoarse, raw from more than passion.

Dana shifted, meaning to take his hand—and froze. Her own wrist caught the light, and the mark there stirred. The four curling lines she had grown used to seeing were moving. Not wildly, not enough to doubt her eyes—but the delicate spirals seemed to draw inward, tightening toward the center like a whirlpool’s pull. They pulsed faintly, sharp as thorns, alive.

Her breath caught. She lifted her arm closer to him. “Fox,” she whispered, “look. Look at your mark.”

He raised his wrist, and sure enough, his spirals had changed too, mirroring hers. The curling lines seemed to coil inward in the same rhythm, faint light flickering between them like a shared heartbeat.

She lifted her face to him, studying the way the light caught in his features—the sharp planes of his cheek, the curve of his mouth, the shadow of stubble on his jaw. He looked almost otherworldly, like a man pulled out of myth, shaped by magic and bound to her alone.

Her chest tightened, but not from fear. It was too much. Too good. She kissed him, slow and tender, and the glow swelled again, suffusing them both until it felt as though the night itself might give way to dawn.

When they finally broke apart, he shifted onto his back, and she rolled with him, sprawling half across his chest. His arm banded around her, his hand spread wide at the small of her back. For the first time since she could remember, Dana felt entirely safe—safe in a way that had nothing to do with spells or blades or running north.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” she asked, her cheek against his chest, her voice small but steady.

His fingers brushed her spine, slow and deliberate. “Yes. Like the bond’s no longer just in here—” he tapped his wrist lightly “—but everywhere. In the heart. In the blood.”

For a long while, neither of them spoke again. They lay tangled together, wrapped in the hum of their bond, listening to the evenness of each other’s breath and the whisper of the soft fire in the hearth, letting the magic flicker and fade and swell again as if it, too, was content to bask in them.

Finally, Fox’s voice broke the quiet. “Do you think the innkeeper’s offer of supper is still good?” She smiled into his skin—she was famished as well. “I’ll dress and go down and—”

“No,” she cut in sharply, sitting up. “No. You came into this room as a familiar, and I’d prefer that’s how you leave it. I… I don’t wish to draw any further undue attention.”

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “As you wish.”

Heat rose to her cheeks as she sat up fully, suddenly aware of her bare form in the candlelight. For a moment she hesitated, but when she stood, his gaze followed her—half-lidded, dark, and utterly unashamed. For the first time in her life, when a man looked at her with that kind of roving appreciation, she felt enlivened by it rather than threatened. Power stirred in her blood, answering his hunger with her own.

She bent to retrieve her shift from the floor, and when the linen slipped over her curves, she heard a tortured breath escape him. The sound made her smile to herself. Once dressed, she returned to the bed, leaned down, and kissed him. The kiss lingered, sweet and warm, and the glow flared brighter between them as though the bond delighted in their nearness. She marveled at it, then pulled back. 

“I’ll be back with food,” she said.

He caught her hand before she turned, bringing her knuckles to his lips in a gesture so tender it stole her breath. Then he let her go.

***

The hallway felt narrower than before, the stairs steeper. Dana walked down them absolutely convinced everyone would see the change in her—would know she had been undone and remade, would sense the glow still clinging to her skin. Surely the building must have shaken as their room had—as she had; surely the bond itself still reverberated in the air. She was no longer what she had been before.

But no one gave her so much as a glance. A pair of farmers hunched over their mugs didn’t look up. The hearth snapped and hissed. Only the innkeeper’s eyes rose to meet hers as Dana reached the bottom of the stairs.

“After supper, are you?” the woman asked, arching a brow.

Dana nodded. Her voice felt thin in her throat. “Yes.”

“Would you like to eat it here, or would you like to take it up?”

“I’d like to eat in my room, please.”

The innkeeper smiled, bustling away toward the kitchen. “I’ll have it for you in a moment.”

Dana exhaled a breath and rested a hand briefly against the doorframe. Her pulse was still quick, her body still aware of the man waiting upstairs. Even here, away from him, the bond hummed beneath her skin like a secret fire.

***

Dana balanced the tray carefully as she slipped back into the room, closing the door softly behind her. Fox had pulled on his leggings but was still bare to the waist, sprawled across the bed, lazy and sated. The sight of him—hair askew, skin golden in the lamplight—made her throat tighten.

“I brought supper,” she said, setting the tray down on the small table near the bed.

He stretched, unhurried, and came to join her. “You look off put."

“I feel… different.” She hesitated, searching for the words. “As though the world can tell, even if no one said a thing.”

His smile was faint but kind. “I know what you mean.”

Somewhere outside, voices drifted through the floorboards—the scrape of a chair, the muted stomp of boots across the common room. A reminder of the world below, ordinary and oblivious, while here she was remade. The thought steadied her, deepened the strange new confidence curling through her veins.

She uncovered the dishes one by one, lifting the polished cloches. Her breath caught. A bowl of thick stew, the scent of root vegetables and herbs rising rich and comforting. Fresh bread, still warm, with a dish of softened butter. And beside it, a little plate of late berries—black, red, and glistening.

She hadn’t asked for it. She hadn’t spoken a word. Yet it was precisely what she had longed for—nourishment and sweetness in equal measure.

Fox raised a brow. “This is just what I wanted.”

“Me too,” she said. 

He shook his head in wonder. “This land listens.” 

They sat close together at the small table, their knees brushing. Each time their skin touched, the glow stirred—no longer a blaze but a soft, pearly shimmer that seemed to gather and fade with the rhythm of their closeness.

She tore off a piece of bread, spread butter thick across it, and offered it to him. He leaned in, teeth grazing the crust as he took it from her fingers. The brush of his lips sent a tingle racing up her arm.

“You’ll ruin me,” he murmured, chewing slowly, his eyes telling her that he didn’t mind if she did.

She smiled and broke off another piece for herself. The stew was hearty, spiced just as she would have asked for if she’d had the chance. She felt it warm her all the way down, settling into her stomach like an ember. When she glanced at Fox, he was watching her, green eyes glinting as though the food in front of him was nothing compared to her.

She looked away quickly, focusing on the berries. She plucked one, red and ripe, and bit into it. Juice spilled down her lip, sweet and tart, and before she could brush it away, Fox leaned in. His thumb grazed her mouth, catching the bead of liquid, and the glow between them flared brighter.

Her breath caught. “Fox…”

He drew the berry-stained thumb slowly to his mouth and sucked it clean, never breaking her gaze. The glow pulsed, answering the sharp twist of heat low in her belly.

Fox swallowed thickly. “Are you… Terribly sore?”

Dana considered herself. She had been a virgin before today, and while there had been an initial pain when he first entered her, she now felt only a vague prickle of discomfort. Mainly what she felt was an ache, but not one caused by their activity. One that would only be assuaged by his touch. 

She shook her head, and he licked his lips. 

They finished the meal slowly, wordlessly—bread, stew, berries, each bite shared, each brush of fingers deliberate. By the time the last dish was empty, the air between them had shifted again, charged and tight, but softened by the comfort of food and the simple miracle of having found each other here.

Fox reached for her hand as she set aside the final dish, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. The glow answered at once, brightening between them.

“You’re still hungry,” he said, voice low, roughened.

Her pulse stumbled. “Yes.”

But she wasn’t speaking of food.

The tray clattered faintly as he pushed it aside, pulling her onto his lap with a swiftness that stole her breath. She went willingly, her legs curling around him, the glow blooming between their bodies like fire catching kindling. His mouth was already on hers, tasting of stew and berries and her, and she thought, dizzy with want, that she could spend a lifetime learning what it meant to ruin him.

***

Fox stood from the chair with Dana’s legs still wrapped around his waist and kissed her deeply, holding her tight to him with one arm and using the other to reach down and tug loose her boots, dropping them to the floor with one and then another hollow thump.

She seemed to barely notice, one hand threaded through his hair and the other raking over his back, her nails dragging against his skin with delicious urgency. Wherever she touched, light stirred faintly, like sparks leaping along dried grass. He carried her to the bed and laid her gently on her back, bracing himself above her.

For a moment he only looked at her—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kiss, the plait she had tied that morning half undone. Strands had slipped free in fiery disarray, a tumble of copper against the pillow. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached up and loosed the rest, letting it spill over her shoulders and across the bed like a river of light. His fingertips brushed her temple, and the bond shimmered there, answering the touch with a faint glow.

His chest clenched tight. Dana had been through so much—accusation, capture, near loss—and still she looked up at him with trust shining clear in her eyes. She deserved more than hunger. She deserved to be worshipped. 

Instinct, rather than memory, drove him—a knowing, born of her, of them. 

Fox bent to kiss her again, slower this time, tasting her sigh before trailing his lips along her jaw, down her throat, to the hollow where her pulse beat fast. Light followed him, faint pulses blooming wherever his mouth touched her. She arched toward him, whispering his name like a prayer.

When his hand moved lower, it met the barrier of her dress. Rather than tug, he lingered. Patient. One by one, he found the fastenings and loosened them, his knuckles brushing her ribs, her waist, her hips as he worked. 

The fabric slackened, parting just enough for his hand to skim along her side. He eased it back carefully, sliding it from her shoulders until it pooled in folds around her waist, leaving only the thin shift beneath. He nosed the linen down, baring the soft swell of her curves, the glow rising instantly to gild her skin. His mouth followed, lingering at her collarbone, tongue tasting the flutter of her pulse before tracing lower, leaving a wet, golden trail as he descended.

Gods, and then—  

He closed his lips around the tight, blushing peaks of her nipples, one and then the other, each begging to be savored. His hands cupped her breasts, lifting them to his eager mouth. She hissed at the contact, the sound arrowing straight to his cock, and he ground himself against the mattress in a futile bid for relief. With every stroke of his tongue he unraveled further, seething with lust—but this was for her, and only her.

He pressed lower, kissing a molten path across her stomach until he reached the bunched folds of her dress. With careful hands he drew her skirts higher, baring the pale skin of her legs, his lips brushing worship onto every inch. She shivered, muscles rippling under his touch, her breath quickening as the glow shimmered across her belly.

When his fingers spread her, parting the delicate, crocus-petal folds, she trembled, clutching at his shoulders with a sound that was something like a gasp—caught between hesitation and need, the light of their bond burning brighter with each breath.

“Fox?” she breathed, uncertain.

He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes, one hand reaching up to smooth the fabric at her hip where light was already seeping through. “Only if you’ll let me, love,” he said. 

A beat passed, then she nodded—hesitant, but the trust was there, trembling yet strong.

When he lowered his mouth to her, she startled at the strangeness of it, hips jolting. A sound escaped her, half protest, half plea. But then he lingered, slow and patient, letting her feel each stroke of his tongue, each devoted press. The light flared with every movement, painting her in shimmering pulses, brighter and brighter until her breathing broke and spilled into a soft cry.

Her hand flew to his hair and tangled there, urging him closer. She gasped his name, thighs quivering against his shoulders, and with each tremor the glow burst sharper, filling the room with a golden sheen.

He smiled against her, the seafoam taste of her bright on his tongue, hungry for every sound she made, every shimmer of light. His own body burned with need, but he ignored it, wholly intent on her. On giving her this. On showing her what it meant to be undone not by force, not by fear, but by joy.

She broke apart beneath him, radiant, light spilling from the bond in luminous waves that lit her skin as she cried out. The sight seared him, filled him, and he thought he could live forever on that sound, that shimmer, that gift.

When she finally sank back, limp and panting, the glow faded to a soft afterglow, clinging to her skin in faint sparks. He pressed a kiss to her thigh, then climbed up beside her, gathering her against his chest. She laughed breathlessly, dazed and shining still, her fingers knotted in his hair.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it could be like that.”

He kissed her temple, heart pounding. “You deserve nothing less.”

For a long moment he held her, fighting the ache still coursing through his body, the sharp edge of want he had pressed into the mattress rather than her. The bond still hummed between them, answering every ragged breath, every racing thought. He let it steady him, let her weight against his chest be enough.

* **

A tree. Roots sunk deep. Bare branches against a pale sky.

A bud, swelling at the tip of a branch.

Petals unfurling, slow and certain, spilling soft light into the stillness.

A fox, golden eyes watching, waiting.

Dana woke warm, tangled in strong arms and steady breath. For a long moment she lay still, letting herself drift in the rare quiet. Her fingertips traced the slope of Fox’s shoulder, memorizing the simple miracle of him beside her. They had stolen this night. She wanted to keep every heartbeat.

When his eyes opened, he caught her watching and smiled. The kiss that followed was slow, unhurried, until their bodies stirred against one another and warmth rose again. Their second joining was gentler, threaded with laughter muffled into the pillows, sighs that gave way to gasps, soft cries swallowed by the gray edge of dawn.

Afterward she dozed against his chest, lulled by the rhythm of his heart. But when the first pale light crept above the rooftops, his breath faltered. His body tensed beneath her.

He fell out of bed and staggered, listing to the side, his face showing the same agony that Dana felt inside. 

She threw herself towards him desperately, reaching out, but her hands closed on the air where Fox had been standing, and the change came all the same—bones tightening, limbs twisting until all that remained was the fox on the floor panting, looking up at her with sad, golden eyes.

She lowered herself to the floor next to him and threw her arms around his neck, her chest aching as she pressed her face into his fur. They had only just found this, and already it was torn from her.

Dana sat next to him, petting him as she would a beloved pet and watched as the same golden light glowed through his fur where they touched. 

Finally, when she felt more calm, she said:

“Do you think…” Her voice caught, and she tried again, this time through their bond, which came easily now. “Do you think the Overseer knew this would happen? That we’d…” 

It wasn’t until after they’d made love that she thought back to the old man’s questions to her on their way to the village, about what happened when they touched, that she’d thought perhaps he knew what would happen. The memory flushed hot through her, and she couldn’t finish.

Fox lifted his sharp gaze. “He said something to me,” he murmured through the bond. “‘One dawn, one choice.’”

Her head snapped toward him. “What does that mean?”

“I think we’re about to find out.”

With a sense of unease, she dressed by habit more than thought, fumbling with laces, hunting for her satchel, counting what little they owned. When she lifted Bite from where it leaned against the wall, the hilt felt… warmer. She glanced down—and the runes that had always been dead stone to her seemed to sharpen, as if the metal itself had turned its face toward her.

She could read them.

The words rose to her lips before she knew she meant to speak, quiet as breath:

“When the last of Dark and Light collide
one shall fall
And Magic shall return”

Fox’s head came up, golden eyes fixed to hers. Through their bond came the barest thrum—shock, awe, a pulse of fear.

“We need to talk to him,” he said. “The Overseer. Now.”

***

They went down to the common room in the thinning pale. The inn was nearly empty: one woman with both hands wrapped around a cup; two empty benches by the cold door; a hearth that threw more shadow than heat. The Overseer sat in the far corner—composed, tall hat shading his eyes, staff upright at his side. Relief loosened what had been clenched inside her.

The innkeeper herself brought breakfast—porridge, a heel of bread, a crock of butter and a few stewed apples—and set it before Dana with a nod. She did not set anything before the Overseer. He inclined his head as if to thank her anyway.

Dana glanced between them. “Will they—”

“They’ll not serve me,” the Overseer said mildly, before she could finish. “But I break no law by sitting. Shelter is not denied.”

The simple cruelty of it scraped at her. She tore bread for Fox and slipped him pieces beneath the table. Each time her fingers brushed his fur, a soft flare of gold breathed over their contact and faded. The Overseer watched those little lights with an expression she could not name—sober, certain, almost… relieved.

She couldn’t hold it any longer. Dana slid Bite from its sheath and set the blade across the table. The metal looked dull as always in morning light, but the hilt—those lines bit into the grip as if newly cut—seemed to catch and keep every flicker of gold from her hand.

“I can read them,” she said, scarcely above a whisper. “Like the runes on the blade.”

The Overseer leaned in. When her fingers brushed Fox again, that faint light climbed into the runes like breath through embers.

“Those,” he said quietly, nodding at the hilt, “have been there even longer.”

“How do you know?” Dana asked.

He reached out and traced one line with a single, careful finger, the way a man might touch a relic. The look in his eyes went soft and far-off.

“Because I was there when they were written.”

She stared. “You were—”

“My witch,” he said, voice gone rough, “is the one who ferried you away—down past the Veil—to the step of your farmwoman mother.”

The words knocked the air from her. Fox pressed closer against her leg, steadying her.

The Overseer moved his gaze back and forth between them. He did not hedge. He did not look away.

“It is time,” he said. His voice carried no hesitation, only certainty. “Time for you to know the truth—who you are, and what has bound you together since the beginning.”

He let the silence hold a beat before continuing. “You were born of prophecy. Both of you. The words are etched into this blade… but they are not—”

The door banged open, cutting him off.

Cold swept the room, tossing the banked hearthlight. Half a dozen men entered in white cloaks that fell in heavy folds, armor bright enough to throw spears of light across the rafters. Their boots struck the floorboards in a measured thunder that made the cups tremble on the tables.

The innkeeper went to meet them, calm and composed, speaking low. When the captain spoke to her, she turned and lifted one pointed hand toward the shadowed corner where Dana, and the Overseer sat, Fox at their feet. The men began to make their way over. 

Dana’s heart lurched into her throat. Of course. They’d come for him—for the Overseer, a man who wore shadow openly into a house of the Light. Her palm flattened against the table, ready to run, to fight, to—

The lead knight stopped at their table and looked at her. For a long breath, there was only the faint creak of his white leather gloves and the wild beat of her heart.

Then he went to his knees.

Steel rang softly on wood. The men behind him knelt as well, a ripple of white and bright metal folding down until it seemed the inn itself bowed.

“Princess,” the captain said, head bent, voice carrying to every corner. His eyes flicked once to the Overseer—measuring, wary—then returned to Dana. “We have come to bring you to your mother. The Queen. The Witch of Light.”

Chapter 54

Notes:

I couldn't keep writing without your comments. Without them, I would honestly quit. Many many many thanks.

Dana rode between two white-cloaked knights, her back straight in the saddle, the reins damp in her palms. The horse moved with a smooth, easy gait, yet she felt every jolt, every sway, her bones as shaken as her nerves.

Fox padded alongside, russet fur catching the morning light. The sight of him steadied her and unmoored her at once. He was too far to touch. From this height she could not reach down, could not trail her fingers through his coat the way she longed to, could not feel the glow that had bound them in secret fire. The distance gnawed at her. The few yards between them may as well have been a chasm. 

The knights did not look at Fox unless they had to. When they did, their gazes slid past him, cool and dismissive. A familiar. Nothing more. They looked at her differently—reverence in every bowed head, warmth in every word. Daughter of Light, they called her. Princess. The one they had been sent to find.

Princess. She still had trouble believing it. She’d been raised simply. Frugally. She had woken up before dawn to milk goats and cows, she had hauled water from the well, skinned rabbits, mended hems by firelight. Her hands knew calluses, not jewels. Her skirts had always been patched, her suppers plain. There had never been a crown waiting for her at the end of the day’s work—only sleep, and then more of the same.

And yet here were knights bowing to her, as she had bowed before her livestock. 

The contrast made her dizzy. The title felt too large, too fine, like a garment she had no right to wear. She could not reconcile the girl who had scrubbed ash from Mildred’s hearth with the woman these men hailed as heir to the Light.

She had wanted to know her blood, her kin. She had wanted to belong. Her heart leapt at the thought of her mother waiting on the journey’s end, arms outstretched after all these years. But the arms of a Queen? And why now? Why not before? 

The knights had allowed her a moment that morning, before mounting. The Overseer stood at the edge of the square, his tall hat shadowing his eyes, staff planted firmly in the earth. Raven wheeled overhead, and Moth clung to his shoulder, wings quivering in the pale light. The knights had kept their distance, but their watchful silence pressed at her back all the same.

“Is it true?” she’d asked him. “Am I what they say I am?” 

The Overseer nodded. 

Dana found it hard to swallow, her throat suddenly thick. “What you were saying about the prophecy…”

From behind her, she heard a gentle clearing of the throat. The Captain of the Knights, Sir Calen, as he had introduced himself, urged his horse a step nearer, hoof striking the earth with a muted thud.

“My lady,” he said, his voice formal but not unkind. She turned toward him.

“We must ride. For safety’s sake, we cannot tarry. ”

Dana’s arm shot out to grab onto the Overseer’s hand, squeezing it sharply. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this. 

“This isn’t goodbye,” the Overseer told her quietly, as though he could hear the protest in her chest. His voice was steady, calm, threaded with the kind of certainty she could not summon for herself. “The road will bring us together again. When it must.”

Her throat ached with all the questions she couldn’t ask.

Beside her, Fox’s ears twitched. The bond stirred, a brush of thought against hers. “He believes it.”

“Do you?” she asked.

A pause, heavy. Then: “I want to. I owe him a debt I might never repay—for bringing me back to you. But I have a feeling the answers he meant to give us may lie at the end of the road we’re about to ride."

The knights shifted, impatient. Fox padded closer to her stirrup, eyes lifted briefly to the Overseer whose own gaze had lingered on Dana as she swung into the saddle, and she carried the weight of it now as surely as the blade at her hip.

Her fingers tightened on the reins. Her mind tumbled over what the Overseer had been about to say in the inn—You were born of prophecy. Both of you. The words are etched into this blade… but they are not— What had he meant? What truth had the knights silenced with their sudden entrance?

The road unfurled through a world too green, too lush. Trees burst with blossom though the air was cool, grasses rippled high and silvered with dew, and every flower seemed to lean toward her passing. Bees dotted the air, buzzing lazily between blooms. The air smelled of rain though the sky was bright, and somewhere unseen, birds sang in layered harmonies that felt half woven of magic.

Dana should have been filled with joy. She should have drunk the beauty in like wine. Yet all she could think of was the warmth of Fox’s skin beneath her own, and the light that answered their touch. All she could hear was the echo of the Overseer’s voice, his words unfinished.

By the time the high spires of the castle rose above the trees—white stone gleaming in unnatural radiance—her throat was tight with both wonder and dread. The gates yawned open to receive her, banners snapping in the wind, and she could not tell if her heart was racing from joy or fear.

Inside the walls, the world changed again.

The courtyard stretched wide, paved in pale stone that seemed to hold its own light, glowing faintly even in shadow. High towers ringed the space, their windows cut in strange, elegant shapes that let shafts of brilliance spear through at angles no sun should manage. The air was alive with sound—not just the ring of armor and the stamp of hooves, but a resonance lay beneath it all, like distant chimes stirred by wind.

Carvings ran along every wall: interlaced runes, their edges still sharp, but their power dulled to a faint shimmer as if the power that had once fed them dimmed with the ages. Between the stones, no moss grew, no cracks spread; the keep bore no mark of weather or time. Even the shadows seemed sharper here, edged in radiance.

Dana’s pulse leapt. This was not like the world below the Veil, with its soot-stained walls and sagging timbers. Here, everything gleamed with permanence. Here, the very air seemed intent on reminding her she had crossed into a realm where nothing would decay.

Knights dismounted, stableboys trotting forward to take their horses, bowing low as Dana swung down from the saddle. Her legs felt unsteady, not only from the long ride, but from the weight of anticipation pressing her chest tight. Somewhere beyond these walls, her mother waited.

She had scarcely set her boots to the cobbles when a shout carried across the yard.

“Sir Calen!”

A young guard came running, breath misting, his white cloak half-unfastened. He dropped to one knee before the captain of her escort, but his voice shook with urgency. “A messenger has just arrived. There’s been a Dreyn attack to the west—in Valmere.”

Dana’s heart jolted. Fox froze at her side, ears pricked forward.

Sir Calen’s face hardened, every line of it chiseled with control, though his jaw ticked once. “Casualties?”

“Dozens,” the guard said. “The Dreyn took whole households before the mage-wardens could drive it off. Survivors say it fed in the open. Without fear.”

A ripple went through the knights. Armor shifted. Someone swore low.

Dana’s throat tightened. A village of Light, guarded, protected—and still it wasn’t enough.

Through the bond came the sharp edge of Fox’s thought: “I had hoped we’d seen the last of the Dreyn.” 

Dana could only agree. 

Sir Calen’s composure lasted a breath longer before his gauntlet closed hard on his reins. “See that the Queen is told at once,” he said, voice clipped. “She must hear it from us, not rumor.”

The guard bowed, already backing away.

For a moment, the courtyard felt dimmer, the air heavy with dread. Dana drew her arms close, the words of the Overseer echoing again in her chest.

Then Calen turned, his gaze steadying on her, and dipped his head in formal respect. “Princess. Your mother waits.”

Her pulse leapt at the words, her heart torn between fear and longing. The knights fell into step around her, guiding her toward the keep. Each stride carried her closer to what she had dreamed of her whole life—and farther into a future shadowed by the threat that hunted them all.

***

Fox padded close to Dana’s stirrup as they passed between the gates. The courtyard opened before them, white stone flaring too bright, air thrumming with the power of unseen wards. The sound slid over his ears with a strange pressure, like faint chords of a half-remembered song. He slowed, unsettled.

He had been here before. He couldn’t have said when, or how, only that something in the air caught at him—like a half-forgotten scent, or a story half-heard in passing. The wards in the stone hummed against his ears with eerie familiarity. The white towers, the sharp shadows between them, stirred unease in his chest as though some part of him remembered, even if his mind did not. Perhaps he too had lived or was born here. 

He shook out his coat and lifted his head higher, hiding the unease beneath watchfulness.

Dana had dismounted, her posture rigid, chin high as though bracing against a storm. Through the bond he felt the whirl of her thoughts, bright and tangled: excitement, fear, wonder, doubt. He fixed his gaze on her face, cataloguing every flicker, every shift of her breath. She looked calm, but he could sense the fragile edge under the mask.

He stayed at her side, her silent shadow, eyes always moving. Every clang of armor, every flare of rune-light along the walls, every bow directed at Dana sent a pulse of awareness through him. 

But despite her threadbare clothes, she wore her lineage like a mantle. Princess. Daughter of the Light. How easily the title fit her. 

And yet she was still just Dana. His Dana. The girl who had claimed him only the night before and who he had claimed in return. 

He pressed closer to her, though not quite touching, taking comfort in the bond which pulsed steady and sure between them. He wanted her to feel it: that she wasn’t alone, not even here, in a place that both welcomed and unsettled her.

But as Sir Calen turned at the messenger’s cry, Fox’s fur prickled. He could feel it again—that flicker of familiarity, sharper this time. Not just memory. Recognition. As though the stones themselves remembered him, and waited.

The shout carried across the courtyard. “Sir Calen!”

Fox’s ears flicked toward the sound. A young guard hurried to the captain’s side, breathless, words spilling in gasps. Dreyn. Valmere. Whole households lost.

The name alone was enough. Fox felt his limbs tense, the bond between him and Dana tightening with her dread. She did not look at him, but he watched her hand curl at her side, the faintest tremor betraying her. Excitement for what lay ahead warred with unease, churning through her until he could taste it in the back of his throat.

He looked up at her, but her eyes were on the messenger, one hand wrapped around Bite. 

Sir Calen’s reply was curt, his voice iron. The guard bowed and withdrew, leaving behind a silence that weighted heavier than before.

Fox’s gaze stayed fixed on Dana. She looked composed enough for the knights, chin high, shoulders squared. But he could feel the whirl of her mind through the bond.

“I’m here, love,” he said, letting her feel his certainty, his faith. “I’m here.”

But even as he said it, apprehension gnawed at him. The keep itself seemed to press close around them, its wards thrumming low against his ears, the air too sharp, too bright. Every rune-lined wall felt watchful, as though waiting for something he could not name. His rough prickled, a slow bristle he could not smooth away.

The knights fell into step again, leading them deeper into the keep. 

The great doors of the hall opened, spilling radiance across the stones. The sound within shifted, hushed, the air itself holding its breath.

And there—upon the dais at the far end of the chamber—stood the Queen.

The Witch of Light.

Fox’s paws stilled on the polished floor.

She was tall, straight-backed, her presence filling the chamber like sunlight. Her white silk robes shimmered with threads of gold, and a silver circlet gleamed against hair the color of bright copper. Fox caught the sharp breath Dana drew, for it was her own shade—Dana’s hair, Dana’s fire—worn beneath a crown.

The woman’s face carried the same fine bones, the same strong jaw, the same blue eyes as Dana’s—only keener, sharpened by years and sovereignty until they glinted like cut crystal. The resemblance was undeniable, and it made something twist low in Fox’s chest. The Queen did not just look like Dana. She revealed her, without a word, her legacy written clear in her daughter’s face.

Dana stepped forward, unsteady, and the Queen’s smile unfurled like dawn.

“Daughter,” she said, voice warm, resonant, carrying to every corner of the hall. “At last.”

Fox felt Dana’s joy flood the bond as the Queen gathered her close, joy so bright he could feel it in his chest. He lowered himself to his haunches, head bowed, watching. The knights around them knelt, armor jingling faintly.

And then the Queen’s gaze found him, arms still around her daughter. Everyone else seemed to consider him an afterthought, so her eyes on him unsettled him so much he curled one paw up, braced for action. 

“And you,” she said, softer now. “Familiar. I am sure you have performed your duty admirably.”

The words rang like praise, but her eyes—those same blue eyes, cold fire in their depths—held something else. Knowing. Appraising. Fox felt it lance through him, sharp as claws. She was not only looking at the fox at Dana’s side. She was looking into him.

His fur lifted along his spine. He lowered his head further, hiding the ripple of unease that had nothing to do with duty, and everything to do with recognition he could not yet name.

Notes:

Anna, Becca, Kim, you guys. YOU GUYS.

Chapter 55

Notes:

Once again, and as always, my betas have been steady, quick and so so supportive. They deserve as many accolades as I do.

And thank every single one of you who left a comment. I would have quit long ago without you.

At first it was simple joy. Pure, unadulterated joy. She had dreamed of family, of belonging, of the natural happiness of acceptance for so long that the moment the Witch of Light had thrown her arms around her, she had felt full of light herself—brimming, overflowing, as though every hollow place in her heart had finally been filled. For a heartbeat she was a child again, not the fugitive or the accused, not the witch fumbling her way through spells she barely understood. Just a daughter. Just wanted. Just home.

Dana tilted her chin up to look at her. 

The Queen’s face was close enough that Dana could study it in detail. Her skin was fair, the lines at the edges of her eyes fine but present, proof of years lived. Copper hair, Dana’s shade exactly, gleamed where it caught the light, but the circlet that held it in place looked heavy. Her eyes—blue, sharp and steady—searched Dana’s with an intensity that made her want to look away, even as she couldn’t.

The resemblance was plain in the cut of her cheekbones, the shape of her mouth. Familiarity layered over strangeness, so that Dana felt as though she were staring at both kin and stranger at once.

Her scent was warm and dry, like thyme and rosemary at a garden gate. Dana breathed it in and felt her chest loosen, only to tighten again at the pulse of power coiled beneath it. Her mother’s embrace was tender, but it thrummed with strength, as though a storm had been folded into the shape of a woman.

And then the Queen—her mother—she had to correct herself, had turned and said something to Fox.

“And you. Familiar,” the witch named him, her tone smooth as riverstone. “I am sure you have performed your duty admirably.” Her gaze lingered on him a fraction too long, and something in it made Fox stiffen at Dana’s side, though he bowed his head low in silence.

The shift was small, but Dana felt it. The joy that had been blazing through her began to slip.

Dana looked down at her clothes, the rough-hewn fabric of her cloak, the hem of her skirts caked in dried mud, and there, folded up in the joyous embrace of her mother—her perfect mother, wrapped in white silk, witch, queen—she had to fight the momentary urge to recoil. All she could think about was pulling away from the woman’s arms and seeing a perfect outline of herself pressed into the silk of her mother’s gown in a sharp silhouette of grime. She wasn’t a princess, but a farm girl, a milkmaid. She may have been born here, but would she ever really belong?

The thought clung to her even as the Queen’s arms held fast, elation and shame tangling until she could hardly tell one from the other.

When she pulled back, the Queen’s hands lingered on her shoulders, steadying her as though to fix her in place. Her smile did not falter.

“Come,” she said, her voice carrying easily through the vaulted hall. “You are home now.”

The words rang through Dana’s chest, almost too much to hold. Home. The sound of it was both balm and burden, filling her with warmth even as doubt pressed sharper against her ribs.

The Queen’s gaze swept over her—taking in the travel-stained cloak, the mud at her hem—and softened. “You must be weary. Let my people draw you a bath, give you time to rest. Tonight we will hold a banquet to mark your homecoming. All the court will gather to welcome you, to see the daughter of the Light returned at last.”

Dana’s stomach tightened. A banquet. All eyes on her, measuring, judging. The word alone made her pulse quicken. She had imagined meeting her mother, yes—perhaps even a meal shared in quiet—but not this. Not finery, not formality, not a hall full of strangers staring to see if she was worthy. Gratitude flickered—at being acknowledged, at being claimed—but it was quickly drowned by unease. She bowed her head to hide it, murmuring, “Thank you.”

At her side, Fox’s fur brushed against her skirts. Through the bond she felt the quiet thrum of his watchfulness and support, steady and unyielding.

***

They followed a maid—an older woman with graying hair—down a long corridor, her pale skirts whispering against the polished stone. The air was cool, carrying a faint trace of lavender and something sharper Dana couldn’t name. Light streamed through narrow windows cut high into the walls, striking the floor in clean, deliberate shafts.

“Fox,” she asked through the bond, keeping her thought tight, uncertain. “Do you think they can hear us here? The way we speak? Above the Veil… in this place… I don’t know if our thoughts are truly ours alone.”

His answer came without hesitation. “No. It’s only us.”

And she believed him. There seemed to be naturally occurring rules woven into the bond between a witch and her familiar—rules Fox had intuited and known since before she’d met him.

Relief eased her shoulders, the feeling settling warm in her chest.

At the end of the corridor the maid stopped before a tall door banded in iron. She bowed once and pushed it open.

“Your chamber, my lady.”

Dana stepped inside, Fox close at her heels—and stopped short.

She had never seen a room so fine.

The floor gleamed with veined marble, cool and pale as chalk cliffs, and a thick rug spread across it, patterned in gold and blue. The bed alone could have swallowed the whole of her loft back home: its posts carved with twisting vines, its canopy draped in gauze so sheer it seemed spun from starlight. Sunlight streamed through high-arched windows, catching at crystal sconces fixed along the walls so that the light fractured, scattering soft rainbows over the white stone.

A low fire burned in a hearth framed by pale stone, its smoke scented faintly with cedar. Cushioned chairs were set near it, their emerald green embroidery so fine she knew she would never feel comfortable sitting on them. Even the washbasin gleamed, silver chased with curling motifs that reminded her of waves.

Her breath caught, not in wonder alone but in disbelief. She had slept in barns, in haylofts, in narrow cots at country inns. She had known the scratch of straw and the weight of patched quilts. This was another world entirely.

She felt foolish walking into it, carrying all her worldly possessions singly on her person; only a satchel, with a single change of clothes, a wooden bowl, a book wrapped in oil cloth. 

Fox brushed past her, nosing through the room alertly as though searching for hidden danger. 

The maid stepped just inside the door, bowing her head.

“Your bath is drawn, my lady. Fresh garments have been laid out as well. If you wish, I will attend you.”

Dana’s throat tightened. She glanced at the steaming water waiting behind a carved screen, at the folded silks draped across a chair, finer than anything she had ever worn. Then she shook her head quickly.

“No—thank you. I can manage.”

The maid inclined her head, unruffled. “As you please. If you change your mind, you may call for a servant.”

She moved to the wall beside the hearth and pressed her palm to a small bronze plate set into the stone. Its etched lines kindled faintly, and a soft chime ran through the air like struck crystal.

“One touch will summon aid. The light will fade when the call has gone.” She lifted her hand, and the glow vanished at once, leaving only dull bronze behind.

With a curtsy, she withdrew, closing the heavy door quietly behind her.

The chamber seemed larger in her absence, the silence more pronounced.

She moved to the room’s window and looked out, the sun still relatively high in the sky. Above the field just beyond the castle was a flock of starlings, whirling as though directed by a superior maestro. But on second look, they were not starlings at all, but parrots or some other colorful bird, bedecked in feathers of jewel-like color, twisting, falling, dodging through the winds of Highveil as though carried solely on its breezes. 

Dana let out a slow breath and looked down at the dull, worn traveling clothes she was wearing, the coarse weave run through with pits and small snags. 

She knew that when Fox changed, he would once again be freshly shaved and wearing the tunic of fine autumn linen. Comparatively, she looked a fright. 

Her boots were muffled by the thick rug as she crossed the chamber and slipped behind the carved screen. Steam rose from the wide basin, and it took her a moment to recognize that the delicate tendrils of vapor were curving into shapes before dissipating; a rose with a twisting stem, a key, a candle. Marveling, she reached out to touch one and it dissolved into the fragrant air. She exhaled expansively. This world was rich in a way she hadn’t expected.

She shed her cloak and travel-stained gown, the rough fabric sliding heavy to the floor, and eased herself into the water.

The heat bit at first, then melted into her muscles, loosening tension she had been carrying since the morning. She let her head fall back against the rim, eyes closing.

From the other side of the screen came the faint click of claws against stone—steady, circling, then pausing, then starting again.

“You’re pacing,” she murmured, and sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at her chin.

“I know this is home for you,” came Fox’s reply. “But this place makes me wary. It’s too bright. Too still. Everything smells of magic.”

She let her fingers trail absently through the water, watching the steam shapes rise above her. “It is very different here,” she said, “above the Veil.”

He sniffed in response.

Dana studied the water she soaked in, as silvery as the tub in which it sat, trying to shake the faint prickle running along her skin. The thought of scrubbing herself clean, of replaiting her hair, felt suddenly urgent—something to restore order. She was vulnerable in here, like this.

She scrubbed herself raw and wrung as much damp from her hair as she could with the soft bath sheet she’d been given and plaited it back with quick, practiced fingers, though the strands clung stubbornly where they were still wet.

She dressed again in her shift and stepped out into the chamber, bare feet sinking into the thick rug. The fire had burned lower, the light softer now, and on the chair beside it lay the garments the maid had promised.

Silk, white as snow, trimmed in the faintest glint of silver thread. A gown finer than anything she had ever touched, much less worn. The sleeves were long and flowing, the skirt cut wide enough to pool like water when it moved. She reached out, letting her fingers brush the fabric—smooth, cool, impossibly light.

And then her hand fell away.

She couldn’t put this on alone. The fastenings ran down the back, delicate ties and hooks she could never reach. A dress made not for a farm girl’s hands, but for one who lived surrounded by servants.

Dana stood staring at it, damp hair dripping against her collarbone and into the thin material of her shift, and felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down all over again.

Fox padded to her side, brushing her leg with his fur, and she almost laughed at the contrast: mud and straw and russet fur she understood. This she did not.

“I don’t suppose you can help me with this,” she said, glancing down. 

He sat back on his haunches, tail flicking once. “Daylight robs me of thumbs, among other things.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, quick and sharp in the stillness of the chamber. It felt good—too good—to laugh here, even for a moment.

With that, she stepped over to the brass plate on the wall and held her hand to it. The symbols lit briefly from within; a soft chime rang out, low and clear. She pulled her hand back, watching as the glow ebbed away, leaving the plate once more dull and ordinary.

A moment later, there was a light knock on the door. The same maid who had shown them to the room slipped inside, bowing her head.

“You called, my lady?”

Dana gestured toward the gown laid out across the chair, crossing her arms self-consciously over her threadbare shift. “I… I’ll need help with this.”

The maid’s expression did not change—no hint of judgment, no flicker of surprise. She merely crossed the room, her hands deft as she lifted a folded length of white linen from the chair. “First, my lady, a clean shift. This one will lie smoother beneath the gown.”

Dana flushed but nodded, accepting the softer garment. The fabric was fine, far thinner and lighter than anything she had ever worn beneath her clothes. The maid turned her back and she slipped out of her old shift and into the new one, the material cool against her skin, almost indecent in its delicacy. Fox watched silently from the corner of the room. 

Only then did the maid take up the silk gown, shaking it out so the skirt spilled like water over her arms. Dana stepped closer, the floor cool beneath her bare feet, and raised her arms. The fabric slid down over her head, whispering against her skin, light as breath but unyielding where the seams pulled her straight. The maid tugged the bodice snug, her fingers quick at the hooks and ties that Dana would never have reached alone.

The sleeves settled last, falling long and flowing to her wrists. The fabric slipped over her mark—the four curling lines spiraling inward, faintly pulsing beneath her skin—until it was hidden entirely. The maid’s gaze passed over it without a flicker of reaction, as though she hadn’t seen a thing.

She smoothed the skirt, fussing only enough to see it fall properly, then stepped back. “There, my lady.”

Dana looked down at herself. The gown gleamed white, threaded with silver that caught even the dim firelight. Her reflection shifted faintly in the mirror—familiar, yet not.

Behind her, Fox stirred, and she felt the weight of his gaze.

The maid gave a small nod, then glanced at Dana’s damp braid. “Shall I see to your hair as well, my lady?”

Dana hesitated, fingers twitching at the plait she had knotted quickly with wet hands. It wasn’t neat, not by courtly standards—stray strands clung damp against her temples and neck. But the maid was already drawing a carved comb from her apron, her expression calm and expectant.

“Sit, if you please.”

Dana lowered herself into the cushioned chair set before a tall standing mirror, her back ramrod straight. The maid loosened the braid with practiced fingers, combing through each section until Dana’s hair lay smooth and shining down her back. The touch was gentle, but Dana still felt a prickle of discomfort, unaccustomed to another’s hands in her hair.

Then the work began in earnest. The maid twisted and wove the strands into a pattern Dana had never seen, coiling sections in intricate loops and binding them with silver pins that caught the firelight. Two slender braids were drawn forward to frame her face, their ends worked neatly into the larger style at the crown. When the woman stepped back at last, Dana lifted a tentative hand—then stilled, afraid to disturb the delicate architecture now crowning her head.

“There,” the maid said softly, with a note of quiet pride. “A style worthy of a daughter of the Light.”

Dana swallowed, her throat tight. She hardly recognized the reflection gazing back at her from the mirror’s polished glass; a songbird in a fabric cage. 

With a final curtsy, the maid withdrew, leaving Dana and Fox alone in the hush of the chamber.

Fox studied her for a long moment, eyes tracing every line of silk and every copper strand pinned into its elegant crown. When he spoke, his voice was soft, unguarded.

“You don’t just wield the Light. You are it. You shine.”

She blushed and knelt down, the skirts she wore pooling around her, the fabric making a soft, crinkling susurrus. Her hands sank into his fur, solid and grounding as earth. At her touch, faint light stirred, glowing in quiet pulses.

For a moment he was quiet, golden eyes studying her. Then, softly: “Are you ready?”

She huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “For dinner?”

His ears twitched, and his gaze didn’t waver. “For answers.”

Her fingers stilled in his coat but the light between them glowed on. 

Chapter 56

Notes:

I have been Going Through It, so this chapter took a while. I apologize for that.

Many thanks to my betas who have been not only great at making this fic better, but also very supportive and kind. Huge thanks to Kim, Anna and Becca.

​​​​The gown was fastened, her hair set in its elegant coils, but Dana’s hands twisted in her lap. She sat on the edge of the bed, skirts pooling wide around her, staring at the fire as if it might tell her how to walk into a hall full of strangers and play the part of princess.

Fox lay at her feet, his fur brushing against the hem of her gown. “Breathe,” he said to her, as if she needed the reminder.

“I am,” she whispered back. But her lungs didn’t feel like they were drawing enough air.

A knock sounded at the door, two gentle taps.

Dana rose quickly, smoothing her skirts. When she opened the door, the Queen stood there—copper hair unbound down her back, her heavy crown traded for a circlet fine as spun moonlight. Without that burden she seemed less sovereign, more mother: lines deepened at the corners of her eyes, her skin gentled by the torchlight in the hall.

“My daughter,” she said softly, eyes warm. “I thought I should see how you fare.”

Dana bowed her head, words catching somewhere between gratitude and panic. “I—I’m well.”

The Queen’s smile deepened, touched with something private. “May I come in?”

At Dana’s nod she stepped across the threshold, and the room seemed to ease around her presence. She did not sweep it with a ruler’s gaze but moved as though it were any chamber, pausing only to brush her fingers across the carved edge of the table before turning back to Dana.

“You look pale,” she murmured, and with a mother’s unthinking gesture smoothed the fabric at Dana’s shoulder. “I should not have called a feast so soon. Forgive me. You’ve had a long journey, and this must feel… too much.”

Her gaze wandered over the silks and pins, then settled again on Dana’s face, her expression a mixture of pride and regret. “But my court has been heavy with worry of late. They need a night of brightness, something to remind them what we stand for. And you—” she reached forward again, this time brushing a strand of hair gently back into place “—you are that light. Your return is a gift I feared was lost to me forever.” Her breath caught in her throat and she turned her head away. 

When she turned back, there were tears brimming in her eyes. Shaking her head and sniffing, she gave Dana a bright, bittersweet smile. 

“Dearest girl, my first concern is you. I wish to know you, for you to know me. Those things should come before parading you before the court. But the moment word spread that you had stepped above the Veil, rumors followed. That you are an imposter. That you are not my daughter. That you are not of the Light.”

Dana couldn’t help but speak. “Am I an imposter? Your Grace, with all due respect, I don’t truly know who I am. I never have.” 

The Witch of Light tilted her head at her daughter, her eyes going soft. 

“Dana, they need only look at you to know that you are my daughter. That you belong here by my side.”

Dana found no answer. The Queen was right—her blood was undeniable, her face a mirror of her mother’s. Yet the only place she truly belonged was at Fox’s side.

The Queen’s voice gentled, though a rueful shadow crossed her features. “Calling a feast was my way of setting the record straight. But that is for my sake, not yours. You deserve answers, guidance, apologies—twenty-two years’ worth of love I was denied the chance to give you. A feast will not give you those things. Say the word, and I will postpone it.”

Dana’s gaze strayed to the far wall, where her satchel rested with Bite tucked beneath it. They were all she truly owned, the last pieces of the life she had carried with her across the Veil. Her other clothes had already been whisked away by the maid for laundering, leaving only those few things—small, worn, almost pitifully out of place in a room so vast and fine.

Her throat worked, but no words came. She glanced down at the sweep of silk over her knees, and raised a hand to the jeweled pins holding her hair in place. I’m already dressed, she thought. Putting it off wouldn’t make it easier—only stretch the dread.

She lifted her chin, though her voice wavered. “I think… I’d rather face it now.”

The Queen’s eyes softened, sorrow and pride mingling there. “You strong, brave, magnificent girl…” Her hand rose to Dana’s cheek, tender as if she were still the child she had lost. “You remind me so much of your father.”

Dana’s breath caught. “My father?” she asked quickly, before she could lose her nerve. 

The Queen’s smile faltered, grief shadowing her features as she turned her head away. “He was taken when you were still an infant. Not by sickness or sword, but by creatures—new enemies of our kind. They feed not on fields or beasts, but on us. On magic itself. Every village struck leaves fewer who can wield power, fewer bloodlines strong enough to endure. That is how your father was lost to me.”

A chill traced Dana’s spine. “The Dreyn,” she whispered.

Her mother’s head snapped toward her, blue eyes sharp. “You know that name?”

Dana nodded. “I’ve seen one. Below the Veil. It came for me.”

The Queen went still, and when she answered at last, her voice carried the smallest hitch. “Below? That cannot be.”

“It nearly killed me,” Dana said, her throat tight.

The Queen did not answer at once. She closed her eyes briefly, gathering herself, and when her eyes returned to Dana’s they were bright, fierce, but touched with sorrow. “Then the peril is worse than I had feared,” she admitted. “But that is for me to contend with, not you. What matters now is this: you are here, and you will not go to that feast alone. Come. I shall take you myself. And together, perhaps, we can give my court some small measure of peace.”

She reached out and laid a hand over Dana’s, squeezing it with a warm touch. 

“And tomorrow, we shall spend the day together. I’m sure you have many questions. And I will answer all of them.”

***

The hall blazed with sound and light, though not enough to fill its vastness. Vaulted ceilings soared above, stars painted in gold and silver glimmering in the candlelight. Yet along the long tables below, whole stretches of polished wood lay bare, flanked by empty chairs. The courtiers who had come pressed close together, their silks rustling as they leaned to trade words in hurried undertones. Dana caught fragments as she passed—Valmere… the village practically gone… the Dreyn drawing nearer—and each overheard syllable snagged at her thoughts.

Still, every gaze turned toward her as she took her seat beside the Queen. The courtiers rose, bowing, voices rich with titles she still couldn’t believe were meant for her. Princess. Daughter of the Light. Each word struck like a bell. She had been no one, a farm girl in patched skirts, and now here she was draped in silk, seated where a hundred eyes fell upon her.

The Queen leaned toward her, eyes warm. “Tell me,” she said softly, “what was it like, the place where you came of age? I would like to hear about it.”

Dana blinked at the question. “It was… plain,” she said at last. “We had goats, a cow. I carried water each morning. I mended clothes by the fire. It was nothing like this.” Her hand twitched as though to gesture at the jeweled sconces and crystalline chandeliers, at the banners that shifted with unseen currents.

“This must feel like a shocking change,” the Queen said softly, her eyes squinting with sympathy. 

Dana opened her mouth, then closed it again. For once, she let herself be held in the warmth of that gaze, trying not to let on just how unmoored she felt.

Her mother’s eyes caught the movement, keen but gentle. “It is a great deal to shoulder all at once,” she murmured. “In time, you will find your footing. The weight will not always feel so strange.”

The music swelled. The Queen’s reassurance was gentle, but the tension rippling through the hall left little room for ease. Guests whispered behind jeweled hands, eyes darting toward where she sat upon the dais. “The wards at Kareth failed—it’s said a Dreyn walked straight through,” a man muttered, shaking his head. “My cousin couldn’t even hold a healing spell—her magic just guttered out,” another whispered back, voice raw. Dana smoothed her skirts and took a nervous sip of her wine.

Sensing this, the older woman leaned in, her voice soft with understanding. “Do not let their worry weigh you down. They have suffered much. Tonight is for lightness. For you. You are the sign they needed—that not all is lost.”

Fox pressed close at Dana’s feet, unseen beneath the table, steadying her with the brush of his fur. She reached for a piece of bread, though she had no hunger, and tried to hold onto the Queen’s words.

Just then, a girl no older than eight came shyly up to the dais, her braids slipping loose, a posy of wildflowers clutched in her hands. The Queen bent with a smile, accepting the gift and kissing the child’s brow. Dana’s chest softened at the sight—until the Queen added gently, “You have done bravely, little one. You will always have a place here.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy and darted back to her seat, where a pair of maids watched her with careful eyes. Dana leaned closer. “She has no parents?” she whispered.

The Queen’s gaze did not leave the hall. “Not anymore,” she said quietly. “The Dreyn leave few behind.”

At the far end of the table a woman in green velvet leaned close to her companion, her jeweled hand trembling faintly around her goblet. “They say Valmere is ash,” she whispered, too loudly to go unheard. “Three villages gone, not a soul left alive.”

A ripple of unease rippled through the hall. A knight, one Dana recognized from the company that had escorted her, muttered, “And yet the Dark do not fall.”

That drew a sharp retort from an older man further down. His fist struck the wood as he leaned forward. “Lies. The Dreyn are killing them just as swiftly. I’ve seen it. Whole keeps emptied, every mage, every witch—Light and Dark alike. Dreyn don’t care what banner you bear. They feed on magic. Light or Dark, it matters not.”

The knight sneered, and whisperers fell silent, eyes dropping to their plates.

The Queen’s voice cut gently through the hush. “Enough.”

It wasn’t loud, but the word carried, rippling outward until the hall quieted. She lifted her goblet with calm grace, her eyes sweeping the gathered faces. “Valmere will be rebuilt. As others have been before. The Dreyn are not the end of us. Do not let fear devour what they cannot reach.”

Her tone softened as she turned back to Dana, the steel in her voice tempered with warmth. “Forgive them,” she murmured. “Their worry runs deep, and they forget their manners.”

Dana swallowed, unsure what to say. “It’s all right,” she managed. “I don’t blame them.”

The Queen’s smile deepened. “Even so, you must not let their shadows touch you. You are proof that hope still walks beside us.” She set her goblet down, tilting her head as though she saw only Dana in that moment. “Tell me—what do you miss most from the life you left? What would you carry with you, if you could?”

Dana’s mind darted to Mildred’s kitchen hearth, to smoke-stained rafters and the scent of fresh bread. “I miss…” She faltered, embarrassed by the smallness of it. “Quiet. The kind that comes at night, when all you hear is the fire. When it feels like the world has stopped moving for a little while.”

“Then we will find quiet for you here, too,” the Queen said, her voice steady, her gaze unwavering. “Even in this place, where nothing seems still.”

A low murmur traveled the length of the table again, tugging Dana’s attention. Courtiers bent their heads together, voices pitched low but urgent. Dreyn in the north… the wards faltering…

The Queen straightened, her voice carrying to the furthest reaches of the hall, though still gentler than any command. “My friends, hear me. The shadows gather at our borders, yes—but we are not undone. Tonight is not for fear but for hope, for the strength that binds us still.” She let her gaze sweep the hall before returning to Dana. Her hand came to rest lightly over Dana’s, not pressing, only anchoring her to the moment. “And here,” she said, her voice warm but unyielding, “is the proof. Our hope. My daughter, returned.”

At Dana’s feet, Fox shifted, claws clicking softly on the stone. His unease brushed against her through the bond, a tight hum that made her pulse quicken.

“Dana,” his voice curled low and insistent, edged with urgency. “It’s nearly sunset. We should go.”

She bit her lip. Leave? Not now. Not when every gaze in the hall was fixed on her, waiting, weighing. Her goblet trembled against her lip as another courtier leaned forward, jewels glinting in the candlelight.

“Princess,” the woman said, gowned in red satin, her face showing a friendly smile. “Tell us—what was it like, to live so long among those without magic? Was it hard? Did they treat you kindly?”

Dana’s mind snagged, caught between Fox’s warning and the expectant hush of the table. Both pressed at her, demanding answers, and for a moment she couldn’t decide which voice to meet first. Her throat tightened, heat rising in her cheeks.

“It was… different,” she managed at last, voice thin but steady. “Harder, in some ways. But there was kindness too.” She thought fleetingly of Mildred’s rough hands, of the way the old woman would hum as she stirred her pots. How could these people have trouble conceiving of a world without magic when she was only just beginning to fathom living in one where it flowed?

Fox’s words pressed again, sharper now. “Dana. If I remain when the sun sets, I change where all can see. I need to be gone.”

She kept her smile in place, lips tight against the answer that wanted to escape her throat. “Can you slip away?” she asked, pulse quickening.

Another pause, and then his assent came, reluctant, heavy. “If I must.” She felt the weight of it in her chest—the cost of his absence, even for a little while.

“I’ll not be long,” she told him. “I hope.”

From the far end of the table, Fox emerged at last and slipped out between the benches, his russet shape a brief flicker against the glow of the torches before he vanished into the shadows beyond the doors. Dana’s heart tugged after him, but when she glanced toward the high seat she found the Queen noticing, with the faintest lift of her brow. Dana couldn’t tell what the look meant. Nevertheless, she forced herself to face forward, the weight of the court’s curiosity pressing in again.

More questions followed. A woman in pearl-dotted sleeves asked about Dana’s journey. A thin, hawk-nosed man inquired after the life she had left below, as though it were a tale told to pass the time. Dana gave what answers she could—short, careful, never straying too far from the truth—while Fox’s presence faded from her side, a hollow tug in the bond marking his retreat.

The Queen seemed to notice, though she said nothing. Instead, she lifted her cup and redirected the room with a question that struck closer to Dana’s heart. “And tell me, child,” she asked, “has your familiar been… a help to you?”

Heat rose to her cheeks. At some point she would have to explain to her mother that her familiar was not just a beast, but a man, too. One that she couldn’t live without. “Yes,” she said at once, the word leaving her lips before she could guard it. This was not the time to explain, not here—not with so many ears straining toward her.

Her mother studied her for a beat, then smiled, almost wistful. “I am glad. A familiar is a rare gift. I have one, too.”

Dana’s head snapped up, questions crowding her throat. But before she could ask them, the music shifted. The doors at the far end of the hall opened, and a procession swept in: dancers in robes of gossamer that caught the shimmering as if woven from moonlight itself, each movement trailing sparks of silver that hung in the air like stars.

The courtiers’ talk quieted. Even Fox’s absence dimmed in Dana’s awareness as her gaze followed the dancers. They moved like water over stone, feet never seeming to touch the floor, voices rising with the enchanted strings until the sound itself hung in the air like vapor. Like smoke. Dana’s lips parted, caught between wonder and disbelief.

And then, as the dance spun into a whirl of light, she felt a yawn rise unbidden, sudden and overwhelming. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, and ducked her head.

The Queen leaned close, her voice low and gentle. “You’ve done well, Dana. More than well. If you are weary, you must go rest. The court will understand.”

Dana nodded, grateful for the mercy of the suggestion, and rose carefully, gathering her skirts in her hands. She felt the air shift as the benches scraped back, the courtiers rising to their feet. 

Her mother rose as well.  No grand announcement, no ceremony—only the brush of a hand against Dana’s back, steadying her as if she might falter. “I will come to you in the morning,” the Queen said, her tone still quiet, still warm. “There is more to tell, more than tonight can bear. For now, rest. Sleep. All else can wait.”

The courtiers bowed as she passed, their voices soft choruses of “Your Highness” and “Light’s daughter.” Dana murmured her thanks where she could manage it, her words half-caught in her throat.

When finally she turned at last toward the door, toward the place where Fox had vanished, her heart lurched with the need to see him again.

Chapter 57

Fox slipped into the chamber with a last flick of his tail, the door closing behind him on muffled hinges. The change overtook him almost at once. Heat and pressure coiled through his bones, his paws lengthening, his chest expanding until he staggered upright on human feet. Breath hissed between his teeth as the final shiver wracked him.

He turned at once to the door, heart hammering, and pressed the latch firmly into place. For an instant he stood frozen, listening, praying no one had seen. Only silence. The chamber held its peace.

Still restless, he paced the length of the rug, his eyes catching on the great bed, the crackling hearth, the sweep of curtains that seemed too fine for the touch of those used to sleeping rough. What he’d seen and heard at the feast still pressed at him—the whispers about Valmere, the tense silence, the way every head had turned toward Dana as though she were both salvation and spectacle. And the Queen… her words about change, about hope. Like the onus of the entire magical world’s future might rest on Dana’s shoulders. Or perhaps it was only Fox’s unease making him hear what he least wanted to.

At last, when his nerves were near to snapping, the latch clicked. The door swung inward, and Fox spun, blood roaring in his ears. For a breath he braced himself for a maid, or worse—a guard.

It was Dana.

He crossed the room in three strides, pulling her into his arms before thought could catch up. She sagged against him, her body soft and weary, her breath warm at his collarbone. Relief coursed through him so swiftly his knees nearly gave way.

He reached behind her, closed the door, and slid the bolt into place. Only then did he step back enough to take her in. “How are you?” His voice came out low. “How was the rest of the feast?”

She rolled her shoulders faintly, the gesture weary. “Endless.”

Fox exhaled and bent to press a long kiss against her brow, letting the warmth of her skin steady him. “It’s over now,” he murmured, his gaze catching on the jeweled pins glittering in her hair.

“For tonight,” she answered with a soft sigh.

Their eyes met, and he sent a quiet pulse of reassurance down the bond. The shift in her was immediate—her shoulders eased, her breath came freer, and a smile curved her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and lifted onto her toes to brush her mouth against his.

He let the kiss linger, savoring it, before he drew back. Her smile turned knowing, eyes bright in the firelight.

“There’s more you want to ask,” she said gently.

Fox searched her face, then proceeded carefully, his tone meant to soothe rather than press. “There were things said. I’m not sure I understood all of them. The Dreyn. The villages. And…” he hesitated, choosing his words with care. “The Queen—what she said about everything changing with your arrival.”

Dana drew in a breath, then let it out in a small sigh. “Well, that’s not exactly what she said. She was just trying to soothe the court after what happened in Valmere. They needed reassurance.”

Fox studied her, reading the look in her eyes. She looked… happy. Whole in a way he hadn’t seen before, wrapped up in family she had never known. To press her now would only dim that glow. So he nodded, forcing the tension from his shoulders. “Yes. Of course.”

He rubbed his hands lightly up and down her arms. “You must be exhausted.”

Dana gave a little laugh and stepped back to sink into one of the cushioned chairs by the fire, letting her head tip against the carved backrest. She only nodded.

“Would you like me to call a maid?” Fox asked gently.

She turned her head toward him, a spark of humor in her tired eyes. “Safer they find a fox in my chamber than a man.”

That drew a smile from him. He crouched beside her. “Then tell me what I can help you with first.”

“My hair,” she said softly.

Rising to stand above her, Fox reached down, his fingers careful against the jeweled pins. One by one he drew them free, each delicate curl slipping loose, until the coils fell in gleaming rivers of copper and gold. The firelight caught them, and the air itself seemed to warm. Heat rose up in him—want, fierce and sudden—but he pressed it down, reminding himself what she needed now was rest.

When at last her hair fell free, Dana stood, the curls spilling all the way down her back. She looked over her shoulder at him, glancing at the silk that wrapped her, hesitant, almost demure. “Would you help me with the laces?”

Fox’s breath grew shallow. He stepped behind her, fingers brushing the luster of her hair as he found the ties down the back of her dress. Slowly, one by one, he loosened them, watching as the gown gave way inch by inch. Beneath it, her shift revealed itself—not the rough, threadbare cloth she had worn before, but the new garment the maid had brought, something soft that clung to her form in a way that made his throat go dry.

He eased the last lace free and the gown slackened, sliding down her shoulders with a whisper of silk before she caught it against herself. Fox’s hands lingered in the air, fists curling, holding back his own need.

“Thank you,” she murmured, gathering the fabric and setting it carefully aside. The shift blushed softly in the firelight, the fine weave tracing every movement of her breath. She turned to him, eyes softer now, her weariness plain beneath the flush on her cheeks.

Fox forced his gaze upward, to her face, to the way exhaustion had drawn shadows beneath her eyes. “You should rest,” he said gently, his voice rougher than he intended.

She gave a small nod, but instead of moving to the bed she reached for his hand. Her fingers were warm against his, her grip light but unyielding. “Stay with me,” she whispered.

“For as long as you’ll have me,” he answered, the vow rising unbidden. He brought her knuckles to his lips in a brief, reverent kiss, then guided her toward the bed.

Dana lay down, curls spilling across the pillow like fire undone, and Fox drew the coverlet over her. 

He lingered by the bedside a while longer, watching the rise and fall of her breath as it gradually slowed. Then, with a quiet exhale, he tugged his tunic over his head, folded it neatly across the chair, and loosened the ties of his breeches. Stripped to his underclothes, he lifted the coverlet and slid carefully in beside her.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and Dana stirred, eyes fluttering half open. Without a word she turned, seeking him, and pressed herself against his side. Her curls brushed his jaw as she tucked her face to his chest, her hand curling lightly against his ribs.

Fox’s arms came around her instinctively, drawing her close. Where his skin brushed her through the thin linen, light bloomed—soft pulses of gold that shimmered between them like a heartbeat. The warmth of her, her trust, settled into him like nothing else could.

She sighed and shifted, tucking herself more firmly against his chest. As she did, their radiance flared brighter, spilling in gentle waves across their skin before ebbing. The rhythm of it matched their breathing, their bond alive and undeniable.

Only then did her body soften fully, her weight yielding into him. Within moments her breaths evened, her glow dimming to a faint, steady shimmer—enough to tell him she was safe, anchored.

His.

***

Stars on the ceiling, moons on the floor. 

Fox darted through the paling corridors, boots thumping quietly, breath burning in and out of him as he made his way down the passageway, the soft flush of dusk leaking through the window at the end of the hall. He must not be seen. 

The wards here brushed against his skin with an odd cadence, discordant and unfamiliar. This place was nothing like his home. But home hadn’t felt that way in far too long. 

From the edge of his vision, a brush of red-gold fur, a spot of white. He pulled up hard, ducked into an alcove and tried to listen above the rush of his breath and the pounding of his pulse. 

The halls were mostly empty, like the rest of the world above the Veil, so the movement made him tense. He pressed his back against the cold stone, counting heartbeats, every muscle strung tight. Nothing followed. No footsteps. No scrape of claws. Only silence, heavy and waiting.

It didn’t matter what he’d seen. What mattered was whether something had seen him.

He slid back out of the alcove, keeping close to the wall, forcing himself into steady strides rather than the breakneck run his body wanted. His soles whispered over the mosaic tiles: moons, stars, sigils he half-recognized but dared not stop to study. The air smelled of smoke and polish, touched by incense, cloying and sharp.

One turn. Another. A spiral stair he descended two steps at a time. Shadows swam across the landings, shifting with the last embers of daylight leaking through arrow slits. Every corner felt like a mouth waiting to close around him.

He quickened his pace. A torch guttered as he passed, flaring and then dying to smoke. He grimaced, pulse surging. Somewhere behind him, the echo of his own footfalls rebounded oddly, as though something else kept time with him a half-step behind. He didn’t look back.

The shape of his purpose pulled him forward, sharp and merciless, but unease dragged like a chain at his heels.

And then—

“Fox.”

The voice rang out from the corridor behind him. Not a shout, not a whisper, but a sound so certain it froze him where he stood. He knew that voice. Had always known it. But it was impossible.

His breath caught. His chest locked. Slowly, disbelieving, he turned toward it—

The chamber was dark when Fox jolted awake, the echo of his own name still reverberating through him. For a heartbeat he wasn’t sure where he was—the cold stone of the alcove walls, the whisper of unseen claws, the voice, long lost—until the hush of the room’s air settled around him and the weight of Dana’s body anchored him to the present.

Pre-dawn light edged the high windows in pale silver. Dana stirred in his arms, a soft sound escaping her as though she too felt the shift in the hour. The glow where their bodies touched beat slow and steady, gentler than the pounding in his chest.

She lifted her face, hair tumbling in warm tangles across her cheek. She inhaled expansively and looked around.  “Are you all right?” Her voice was still husky with sleep. “Did something wake you?”

He smoothed the stray strands back from her temple, his fingers lingering. “I didn’t want to miss this,” he said quietly, not wanting to worry her. The words came out rough and heavy, weighted with the delicate, new thing that now bound them.

Her mouth curved—her smile small, but real. She touched his jaw, fingertips tracing the edge of stubble. Light flickered at the point of contact, a tender flare that softened the air between them. Fox let himself ease into that brightness, into the fierce and fragile truth of her that pressed against him, until the brilliance ebbed back into his own skin.

He reached down and grabbed her hand, lacing their fingers together, and then lifted, raising up their linked hands in order to see the bond mark swirling in endless eddies along the skin of their wrists. 

“Look,” he said, awe creeping into his voice. But her gaze was focused on his face. 

When she leaned into him, lips brushing his, the restless thrum of his pulse picked up. Her kiss deepened, slow and searching, and the radiance answered, brightening until the chamber itself seemed to shine with them, an earthbound flare, her body soft and hot as magma. He dropped her hand and traced his fingertips along her skin so that every place his hands touched—her shoulders, her waist, the delicate line of her spine—flared in reply. He could no longer tell where flesh ended and magic began.

She shifted closer, curling into him, her fingers threading into his hair, leg thrown over his waist. The light swelled with her need, with his, washing over the walls and ceiling like dawn breaking early. He whispered her name against her mouth, reverent, before rolling her over and trailing his lips along her jaw, down the curve of her throat where her heartbeat leapt beneath his touch.

Her breath hitched, and the answering blaze rose sharp and sweet between them, dazzling, until it felt as though they lay inside a star. Still, he was careful—hands gentle as they mapped her, his body braced against the rush of want. She was the one to draw him down, pulling him with her as she sank back into the pillows, the spill of her hair fanning a duller gold across the linen.

Light. She was light. The heir of Light as the courtiers in the great hall had called her, incandescent with power, with beauty, with a blazing rip of spirit his soul was called to worship. 

He raked his teeth over the skin of her neck, then darted his tongue out to soothe it, repeating the process as he moved lower, sparks blazing in fizzing scintillas over her skin. A hiss seethed from her throat when he grazed a nipple, and she arced up off the bed, back like an archer’s bow, her body momentarily hovering several inches above the mattress before settling back onto it soft and slow as a feather. If he could have been pulled away from her skin long enough to look, he would have seen that they hovered momentarily in the air. 

The world beyond the chamber fell away. There was only her—her magic, her warmth, her scent—the bond flaring wild and radiant. 

And then he was there at the brine-sweet fen of her entrance. Without waiting, he tipped his face forward and applied himself to her pleasure. He couldn’t remember the taste of strawberries or apricots—any spring fruit, really—but Dana, Dana was better. 

A moan rose up from above him, hoarse and round, muffled by her thighs tucked up tight around his ears. He reached up with both hands and gently spread them, her knees falling open, the spongy, damp mounds of her flesh glistening faintly in the warm glow of their bondlight. He wanted to drown in her, lose himself to the bacchanal laid out before him, but she whispered his name, a pleading, harsh, animal sound. Nothing he’d ever heard before. He had no choice but to obey her plea.

He followed the pull of her hands on his hair, nosing his way up the flesh of her torso, up and over the hard knot of her chin. When at last his lips descended to plunder her own, he pushed into her, slow and thick, and the flare of light between them was so bright it blinded him to all but the feel of her under him; her slick stretching flesh, her warm tender mouth. 

She whispered a string of unintelligible words into his lips, melodic as a hymn, and he slammed his eyes closed, overwhelmed with religious-like devotion. The bed was an island. A church. A cathedral raised only for them, arches of light curving overhead, every breath between them a prayer, every touch an amen.

Beneath him, she threw her head back, tendons straining, and he had to fight to keep himself from spilling into her before she reached her crisis. Pushing himself so that his weight rested on his knees, he grabbed her hands and lifted them up and over her head, pinning them to the mattress while her breasts swayed like waves washing forward and back into the riprap with each thrust of his hips. 

Their rhythm grew frantic, inevitable, the light following each rise and fall until it seemed their very breaths were weaving the air into radiance. 

Dana’s voice caught on a low cry, her fingers twisting in his, and the sound undid him. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes shut tight against the brilliance, and together they broke into it—into something greater than flesh, greater than magic. He filled her with himself until they became each other.

For one long moment, they were weightless. Suspended. Every scar, every secret, every loss burned clean in the blaze that wrapped them both. Then the light softened, ebbing slowly back into the shape of a chamber, a bed, two bodies twined together in its center, their skin slick and cooling.

Fox’s chest heaved against hers, damp hair clinging to his temple. He kissed her hair, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, each touch tender and reverent. She reached up, brushing her knuckles against his jaw, eyes luminous in the fading gleam.

“Fox,” she whispered, and his name in her voice felt like a vow.

He drew her close, arms gathering her in, and for the first time since stepping into this castle—since hearing the word princess tied to her name—he felt certain of something.

Whatever tomorrow held, whatever shadows pressed at the edges of their world, they would meet it together.

Notes:

As always, HUGE thanks to my betas for catching all the shit I didn't. You guys are the best.

Chapter 58

Dana woke to the pale hush of dawn, the high windows washed in a faint grey luster. The fire had gone to ash, the hearth stones grey and cool. The space beside her was empty, but at the foot of the bed Fox lay curled, his flank rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. His ears twitched as she stirred. Golden eyes found hers in the dimness, and through the bond came the quiet pulse of his voice.

“You should have slept more” he said, muzzle still tucked against his tail. “You stayed up watching me.”

Color warmed her cheeks as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulling the shift she had slipped back into tighter around her shoulders. “And how would you know that? You were asleep.”

“I don’t have to see you,” he answered simply, not lifting his head. “To feel your eyes on me.”

A protest caught in her throat, tangled with something softer she didn’t have words for. She turned from him, trying to gather herself, and that was when she noticed what she hadn’t the night before.

She padded across the floor and reached down. 

In the far corner sat a neat stack: fresh linen shifts, soft as milkweed fiber; two dresses finer than the one she had worn at the feast but cut with a simplicity that looked easier to move in; a pair of supple leather boots; even a new cloak, its clasp shaped like a silver leaf. They must have been left while she and Fox were in the great hall, placed so discreetly she hadn’t seen them when she returned, dazed and heavy-eyed. The sight made something stir inside her, warm and tentative, the rare feeling of being anticipated.

She had just begun to change when a knock sounded, gentle and deliberate—two soft raps against the door. Dana started, heart jolting, and glanced at Fox. His ears pricked, his snout rising to sniff the air briefly.

“It’s only the maid,” he said.

She pulled on the dress the rest of the way and crossed quickly to lift the bolt.

The same maid from the evening before stood waiting. She bowed low. “Her Majesty asks that you join her for breakfast, my lady.”

Dana nodded, and the maid stepped inside just long enough to glance toward the bed. With a murmured word and a deft sweep of her hand, the tangled coverlets stirred, pillows plumping themselves, sheets snapping taut until the bed looked untouched. Dana stared, wonder and unease threading through her chest, but the woman only dipped another curtsey and gestured toward the door.

Fox padded to her side, his brush of fur a wordless promise. “I hope there’s meat,” he murmured.

Dana smoothed her palms down the soft blue gown she had chosen, steadying herself. Then, with Fox close at her heels, she followed the maid into the quieter corridors beyond.

The chamber they entered was nothing like the vast hall of the feast. Sunlight pooled across a smaller table set only for two, silver dishes laid out with thoughtful care. The Queen rose to greet her, copper hair braided loosely, the delicate circlet glinting in the morning light. She looked older in the sunlight, worn and tired, as though she hadn’t slept. But there was warmth in her eyes as she reached to take Dana’s hand.

“Come,” she said. “Sit with me.”

They took their places at the small table, the quiet crackle of the fire filling the silence between them. Compared to the glittering feast the night before, the morning meal felt almost austere: a round of coarse bread, warm and fragrant from the oven, a crystal bowl brimming with porridge sweetened with cream, and a slender pot releasing curls of mint-scented steam. A platter of eggs and a rasher of crisp bacon strips sat at the center, gleaming with a buttery sheen.

Dana’s stomach tightened with hunger. She darted a glance at the Queen and reached for a few slices of bacon, shuttling them under the table. A brush of warm fur grazed her palm, and Fox accepted the offering with careful teeth, his warm eyes blinking thanks before he slipped back beneath her chair.

Across from her, the Queen rested her long fingers against the porcelain teapot, her gaze lingering on Dana—not unkind, but heavy, weighted with thoughts Dana could not read. The young woman shifted in her seat, torn between the sharp pang of her empty stomach and the sharper prickle of being observed.

Finally, hunger won out over reserve, and she tore into the bread, the crust crackling between her fingers, and followed it quickly with spoonfuls of porridge, as though the food might vanish if she lingered. Old habits from the road died hard.

The Queen, however, seemed in no hurry, sipping her tea, watching Dana with kindly patience. For the first time since she had arrived, there was no crowd to turn their eyes on her. No whispers carried across the table. Only the steady crackle of the fire and the soft clink of silver.

But as she ate, she couldn’t shake the awareness of the empty corners of the chamber. A silence clung to them, unsettling in its absence of fur or feathers. No serpentine coil around the Queen’s wrist. No gleaming black wings in the rafters. No quiet, watchful eyes blinking from the shadows.

Her own familiar, hidden beneath the table, gave another gentle nudge, his whiskers brushing her calf. “What are you searching for?” Fox asked.

Dana continued to chew, reaching forward to rest her fingers along the top of a small glass of bright red juice. “Last night, she said she had a familiar. Or… did.”

From the floor, Fox inhaled the air with a delicate lift of his nose. His ears flicked back. “I smell nothing,” he murmured.

Unaware of the conversation happening in front of her, the Queen took a sip of her tea and smiled.

“So,” she said, gently. “Your farmwoman mother. Did I choose wisely?”

Dana blinked, her attention instantly refocused on what her mother had just asked her.  “You… you chose her?”

The Queen inclined her head, fingers resting on the rim of her cup. “It was not a decision I made lightly. There are few places below the Veil where our blood could hide. But the trees themselves showed me where to carry you. They whispered of a woman who had lost her child to fever, who still left an empty cradle by her hearth. She had sorrow enough to love another’s daughter as her own.”

Dana’s throat tightened. She pictured Mildred’s weather-worn hands, the songs she had hummed at the fire, the rough wool blankets she’d pulled up over Dana’s shoulders. “Did you take me there yourself?” she asked, thinking of the basket, of the woven green grass trinket that Silas had given her.

A flicker crossed her mother’s face—something like regret, or something deeper. She shook her head slowly. “No. I could not. To leave even a trace of my power in that world would have betrayed you. You would have been found.”

“Found by who?” The question slipped out before Dana could stop it. “Why did I have to be sent away?”

The Queen’s blue eyes met hers, and this time there was no softening in them. Only the steady weight of truth. “Because you were a target.”

Dana’s heart thumped. “The Dark Mage?”

For the first time, the Queen’s composure faltered. A shadow darkened her face, quick as a passing cloud. “Another name you shouldn’t know… and yet you do.”

“Yes.” Dana’s voice came low, tight. She lowered her gaze to the bread in her hand. “I’ve seen him. He found me." Her eyes shifted toward the fox at her feet, whose ears had pricked, his golden stare unblinking. “I… I managed to escape."

The Queen went very still. Then, in a voice that cracked before she mastered it, she whispered, “Light preserve us.” Her fingers tightened around her teacup until Dana worried it would crack. “Your travels were not as without peril as I had been led to believe they would be. I should have come for you. I should not have waited.”

She released the cup, as though it had burned her, and folded her hands in her lap. A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint scrape of the serving girl coming through the door.

The Queen held her breath, waiting for the girl to leave before she pressed on.

“Tell me—how did you escape the Dark Mage? Was it your power? Did it rise to meet you?”

Dana shook her head. “No. I didn’t do it alone. I had help. It was a confluence of events, really. Me. The Dreyn. The Dark Mage, all coming together at the same place and time. ” She glanced down again at Fox, his tail curled neatly over his paws, his eyes fixed on her. "In the chaos of their meeting, we made our escape."

The Queen’s face went pale, as if the light had drained out of her skin. For a heartbeat, she looked not like a queen but like a woman hearing the toll of doom. Then she gathered herself, smoothing her expression, though her hand trembled faintly as she reached for her teacup again.

“Then there is less time than I feared,” she said quietly. “If the Dark Mage has already touched your path, I can delay no longer. Your lessons must begin today. You must learn not only to call your power, but to wield it—to shield yourself when the shadows press close.”

Dana’s pulse jumped. “Why? Why is it so urgent?”

The Queen held her gaze for a long moment. Then, with a slow, sorrowful breath, she rose and extended her hand across the table.

“Because you are the last,” she said. “Come.”

Notes:

Me + My Betas = 🩷