Chapter Twelve

Dawn crept in like an apology.

Pale light sifted through the trees, laying soft gold over the ash grove where the air still hummed faintly of the night’s magic. The world had that suspended stillness that comes only after something sacred—or terrible—has passed.

The coven worked in silence.

I stood at the edge of the clearing, fingers tucked into the folds of my robe, watching as Darcy led the ritual. Every motion was deliberate. Every word is a balm.

The young witch’s body lay wrapped in silver-threaded linen, bound with moonwort and thyme. Her face was serene now, all fear bled away. Mira placed a sprig of night-bloom jasmine over her heart before the earth accepted her. Tonya whispered a blessing through trembling lips, her voice cracking halfway through the old prayer for peaceful rebirth.

When the final chant ended, the runes around the grave flared once in acknowledgement—then dimmed forever.

Darcy straightened slowly, leaning on her cane as if the weight of the night had finally caught up to her. “She rests beneath the willow,” she said softly. “As the old ones do.”

The coven bowed their heads as a whole.

The wolves still lingered at the perimeter—silent sentinels—and one by one, they turned and vanished into the trees. The vampires were long gone, but the faint chill they carried still clung to the air like ghost perfume.

Dylan stood behind me, quiet, his hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. His eyes were hollow—not empty, but full in that way grief fills a person to the brim. He’d barely said a word since pulling me out of the circle. Every time I’d caught his gaze, there was something in it that made the world tilt—a mix of fear, awe, and something dangerously close to devotion.

When Darcy dismissed the coven, I didn’t wait to be fussed over. I turned on my heel and headed home.

The path back to the cottage was half-lit, the forest still waking. Dew clung to the grass, and my boots whispered through it like conspirators. Dylan followed, his silence sticking to me like humidity. I didn’t try to fill it.

By the time the cottage came into view, the sky had bled into soft blue. My porch looked almost normal again—except for Cleopatra, perched on the railing like a judgmental gargoyle, glaring at us both.

“Don’t start, Cleo,” I warned her.

She honked once, low and disdainful.

“Yes, ma'am.” I mocked.

I stepped inside, the door creaking in familiar protest. The scent of dried herbs and faint smoke wrapped around me like an old cloak. I slipped off my robe, hung it on the back of a chair, and went straight for the coffee pot.

Dylan lingered in the doorway, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “You’re really just..." he trailed off in a questioning tone.

I hummed and waited until the machine finished its task before pouring coffee into my mug, the one with the chip along the rim. “Normal’s a stretch, but I’m vertical and caffeinated. That’s most of the way there.”

He stepped closer. “You died last night.”

I waved a hand. “Temporarily.”

“That’s not normal,” he said flatly.

“Define normal,” I said, sinking into the velvet couch. It groaned in protest, same as always. I tucked one leg under me, cradling my mug like a small sun. “Some of us throw lightning, argue with ghosts, and make pacts with the moon. Temporary death barely cracks the top ten.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me, that haunted look etched into every line of him. “You scared the hell out of me.”

I sipped my coffee. “Fear keeps you alive.”

“Thea, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I looked up through my lashes at him. "You're not amongst the humans anymore, handsome."

He exhaled sharply, pacing a circle once before turning to face me. “Then tell me what that was. What you are. Because whatever happened in that grove—” He stopped, jaw tight. “It wasn’t something common.”

“Good thing I never claimed to be.”

“Thea—”

“Sit down.” I pointed to the side opposite mine. “Before your worry lines start unionizing.”

He hesitated, then obeyed. The frame creaked under his weight. The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable, but it was familiar. Waiting.

I looked at him over the rim of my mug. “You want the truth?”

“I’m done with half-truths.”

“Well.” I tilted my head, thinking. “The truth is... I’ve been here a while.”

“How long?”

“Since the beginning,” I said it like it was an address, not a confession. “Since before there were covens and councils and fancy robes. Since before anyone thought magic needed rules.”

He stared, trying to process. “You mean—”

“I mean, I’ve watched the world burn itself down more times than I can count. Watched kingdoms rise, witches fall, wolves learn to stand on two legs. I’ve died, and I’ve started over. Sometimes both before breakfast.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, to call it impossible—but something in my face stopped him.

I set my mug down and leaned back in the chair, letting it rock gently. “Death’s sad. Always is. But it’s also fleeting. For me, at least. I see it come and go like the weather. It rains, it passes. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel the storm when it hits.”

His voice softened. “Is that why you didn’t cry?”

I looked out the window, watching the brighter sunlight break across the garden. “I’ve cried enough for every century I’ve walked. It doesn’t help the ones left behind.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You talk about time like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I said quietly. “It’s everything, and it’s heavy. But it’s also funny.” I smiled, small and sad. “Because after all these years, people still make the same mistakes. Still love too hard. Still die too soon. Still leave me to bury them among the grove.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me like he was trying to see all of it—the weight, the weariness, the woman who used sarcasm to keep from drowning in eternity.

After a long moment, I forced a grin. “Now, are you done brooding, or should I fetch you a dramatic cape to match?”

His mouth twitched. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.” I lifted my mug in a mock toast. “It’s my best quality.”

He shook his head, but there was a flicker of life in his eyes again. “You really don’t ever stop, do you?”

“No,” I said simply.

I leaned back, slowly, watching the sun climb higher through the trees in the windows. Dylan stayed quiet, still holding onto whatever piece of me he thought might vanish again. Cleopatra honked outside, probably cursing us both in goose.

And for the first time since the scream in the grove, the world felt like it was breathing again.