Page 90 of Summertime Hexy
We don’t need fireworks.
We have fireflies.
And quiet.
And the kind of love that doesn't demand to be loud to be real.
CHAPTER 30
DEREK
The forest sings differently this morning.
It’s not a sound exactly—not birdsong or the breeze, though there’s plenty of that—but something deeper. Like the ground is humming under my boots, low and alive, the kind of vibration you feel more than hear. Like the land knows what day it is.
Opening day.
Again.
And this time, we’rereadyfor it.
I lean against the newly carved arch at the end of the main camp path, arms crossed, watching the sun spill through the tree canopy in golden shafts. The scent of pine and sugar blossoms hangs thick in the air, mixing with the faintest whiff of potion smoke and whatever Milo set on fire last night trying to “enhance the welcome runes.”
Hazel sidles up beside me, sipping from her ridiculous goblet-sized travel mug. The one that says “World’s Okayest Witch” and somehow hasn’t cracked despite repeated exposure to spell surges and sarcasm.
She bumps her hip into mine. “One silver says at least three kids cry during orientation.”
I grunt. “Five says at least one turns into a newt.”
“Deal.”
Camp Lightring has tripled in size since last year. We’ve got a dedicated alchemy dome now, a new enchantment loft with open sky windows for safe spell detonation, and creature habitats that stretch across a whole quadrant of the woods. The staff cabins have been reinforced. The floating dock doesn’t randomly sink anymore. Hazel painted murals on the fencing—bright, wild things that move when no one’s looking.
And at the heart of it, the Grove still hums. Quiet. Content.
The first shimmer of the transportation sigils flares just past the treeline, and I straighten.
Here they come.
Kids start arriving in waves, some with arms full of gear, some already casting minor levitation charms to haul their trunks behind them. One girl, probably ten, steps off a moss-drawn cart with glowing antlers, her boots scuffed and a toad clinging to her shoulder. A boy immediately trips on his own enchanted suitcase—it sprouts tiny legs and scurries off, prompting him to yell, “IT KNOWS MY SECRETS!” as he chases it.
Hazel snorts. “Already worth it.”
Milo barrels past us, robes askew and grinning like a maniac. “They’re here! They’re tiny! They’reweird!I’m in love!”
He beelines toward a pack of wide-eyed kids and immediately launches into what I can only describe as a glitter-enhanced safety briefing. The words “emergency s’mores” and “unexpected squid summoning” float back toward us.
“Gods help them,” I murmur.
“Gods helpus,” Hazel corrects.
We walk the edge of the field, watching it all unfold. Campers with wings that haven’t quite figured out aerodynamics. A half-djinn boy setting off sparks from his palms with every laugh. Agroup of siblings all wearing identical cloaks enchanted to mimic the weather—one of them is literally raining.
And standing a little off-center in the crowd, tall and steady, is someone I didn’t expect to see so soon.
Torack.
He looks older. Not fragile, not broken—justworn.The kind of aging that only comes from carrying too much hope and fear in your chest for too long.
