Page 78 of Roaring Spell

Something shifts in his expression. Not defeat—acceptance. The recognition that arguing further is pointless because I’ve already made my decision.

“With.” His voice is rough. “Always with.”

“Oh dear.” A familiar voice drifts through the empty house. “She’s gone and made it dramatic. Villains do love drama.”

We spin toward the doorway.

Grandmother Peach stands on the threshold, a covered basket in her hands and an expression of benign omniscience on her ancient face. How she got past Caius’s perimeter is a question I’m not sure I want answered.

“You knew.” The accusation comes out sharper than intended. “You knew about Valesh.”

“Suspected. Strongly suspected.” She sets her basket on the stripped kitchen counter. “The mist is very chatty about betrayals. It’s been whispering about her for months. I just couldn’t prove anything until you clever children did all the hard work.”

“You could have warned us.”

“I could have.”

“The siphon—” I start.

“Yes, yes. Midnight activation. Very dramatic. Very villainous.” She reaches into her basket and produces two small charms—crystal pendants on silver chains, pulsing with protective magic. “These will help. Not much, but enough. The wild magic in the Overgrowth will try to overwhelm you. These should provide some anchoring.”

I take the charm she offers. It’s warm against my palm, humming with power that feels ancient and oddly familiar.

“Protection.” Grandmother Peach presses the second charm into Torin’s massive hand. “For both of you. And a word of advice—” She fixes him with a look that borders on stern.

“Valesh has allies. At least three, possibly more. They’ll be waiting at the nexus point.” Grandmother Peach’s expression loses its whimsy, becoming serious in a way I’ve rarely seen. “She’s been planning this for years, dear. The siphon isn’t just a weapon—it’s a statement. Proof that the old ways can be stopped. That witch-shifter pairings can be prevented.”

“We’re not—” I stop. Flush. “We haven’t⁠—”

“Not yet.” Her smile returns, knowing and slightly smug. “But the potential is there. The mist has been very clear about that. Valesh sees it too. That’s why she’s targeting you specifically.”

“Because I might claim a shifter?”

“Because you will claim a shifter. And that claiming will strengthen the Warding Line in ways the Preservers have spent centuries preventing.” She picks up her basket. “Now. I’ve said enough. Probably more than enough. Go save the town. Try not to die. And when this is over—” She winks at me. “—stop fighting what you both want.”

“Everything about Mistvale is concerning.” I slip the charm over my head, feeling its warmth settle against my chest. “Ready?”

“No.” He puts on his own charm. “But that’s never stopped me before.”

Outside, Caius is already redirecting the wolves toward the tree line—not into the Overgrowth itself, but around it, covering the paths in case Valesh’s people try to bolt for open ground.

“With the forest bending to Valesh’s magic, it won’t let a dozen of us through quickly, not with the unstable paths,” he says, when I ask why the others aren’t coming into the trees with us. “Two of you can move fast and quiet. The rest of us box the perimeter and follow the moment we can cut a stable route.” His jaw is tight—he doesn’t like it any more than I do. “Go. We’ll be behind you as soon as the Overgrowth allows it.”

It doesn’t feel like enough of a head start.

It has to be.

The Overgrowth is worse the second time.

Last time, the darkness felt watchful. Tonight, it feels hungry. The mist hangs silver and dense, the moon barely penetrating the canopy, and the wild magic that bled at the edges before now seeps through everything like poison.

The trees watch. I feel their attention like physical weight, ancient eyes tracking our progress through their domain.

“They know we’re here.” Torin moves beside me, his bulk reassuring despite the surrounding darkness. “The forest is... agitated.”

“Can you blame it? Someone planted a magical bomb in its heart.”

“The nexus point is this way.” He pauses, head tilting as he listens to sounds I can’t hear. “Quarter mile, maybe less. I hear it. It’s... humming.”