Page 84 of Magical Mayhem
I sank back in my chair, staring at the book sprites buzzing around the edges of the table, their wings flickering like candle flames. They chirped and squeaked, smug as ever, clearly taking credit for the woman who had handed me the book.
“All right,” I whispered, almost to myself. “You win. I get it.”
One sprite squealed triumphantly and attempted to crown me with a scrap of ribbon it had stolen from somewhere. I laughed, shoving it away gently.
Then I bent back over the book.
The chapters were dense, detailing rituals of calling that had been used for centuries to summon wayward clan members back to their land. Songs sung beneath full moons, bonfires at Ward-lines, offerings of blood and bone and loyalty. None of it was simple. None of it was safe.
But it was a start.
And whether Keegan knew he was part of it or not, he put out the first call under the moonlight.
As I skimmed, my mind raced. I couldn’t help but think of Keegan in bed and his mother circling Stonewick unseen. I thought of Gideon, tied to us unwillingly by Malore’s intentions. I thought of the students, their chatter and laughter filling the banquet hall even as the sky grew darker.
The page blurred until the words seemed more sung than written, as though the ink itself remembered the sound.
When the moon is high and hollow,
when the pack is scattered wide,
gather not in fang or fury,
but in heart where kin abide.
Break the Path that starves the spirit,
fight the shadow, feed the flame,
call the ones who walked before you,
speak the lost ones back by name.
Every weakness turns to blessing,
every exile finds the way,
when the circle holds together,
dawn will meet the hungering day
It wasn’t long, barely more than a chant, but the words throbbed with a weight that belonged to stone and blood and bone.
This was no battle cry. It was older than that, woven for healing, for reunion. An ancient rite meant to draw the scattered threads of shifters back into one cloth, binding them against the Hunger Path Malore twisted for his own ends.
I mouthed the words again, softer this time, and felt the echo stir in my chest. This wasn’t about claws or dominance. It was about remembering. About calling the forgotten back into belonging.
What if the answer wasn’t to drag the Silver Wolf out of hiding? What if the answer was tocall herwith a chorus loud enough that even she couldn’t ignore it?
My heart thudded at the thought.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t dared let myself feel.
Hope.
I closed the book, resting my hand over its cover, and breathed deep.
I wasn’t just a protector. I was a teacher. A leader. A witch bound to Stonewick, not because I had chosen it, but because it had chosen me.
