The Hollow always smells like someone lit a match and forgot to put it out.

Snow half-melts as it hits the pavement, turning the streets slick and gray. The lamps overhead buzz like dying bees, casting more shadow than light. Naomi walks beside me, scarf pulled to her chin, the white knit bright against her skin.

“You know,” she says, “most people would call showing up forty minutes late rude.”

I grin, teeth flashing in the dark. “Most people lack commitment to their mystique.”

She bumps my shoulder, warmth bleeding through layers of wool and leather. “You don’t have mystique. You have poor time management.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” I twirl one of my daggers as we walk, let it vanish again just to feel the muscle memory settle. The sound of the blade sliding home is steadier than my heartbeat. “Besides, you’d miss me if I started being punctual.”

“Maybe,” Naomi says, soft enough to be dangerous. “But only because it would mean you’d been kidnapped.”

“Again,” I finish, and she laughs—the sound scattering the night like light off broken glass.

The Hollow isn’t beautiful, not really, but tonight it feels alive. Steam curls from drain grates. Music drifts from a nearby window—someone’s old radio fighting to stay in tune. The scent of roasted nuts from a vendor cart mixes with the sharper bite of ale and frost. For once, the city feels almost kind.

We pass a group of kids chasing each other through an alley, their laughter echoing against the brick. One of them waves. I wave back. Naomi watches me like she’s trying not to smile.

“What?” I ask.

“You,” she says. “You act like the whole world’s your pack.”

“Maybe it is,” I tell her. “You can’t run a rebellion if you don’t love what you’re saving.”

She stops us long enough to catch my collar and kiss me quick, the kind of kiss that tastes like peppermint and promises. “You can save it tomorrow,” she murmurs. “Tonight, you promised me food and music.”

I smirk. “And maybe a dance if you’re lucky.”

“I’m always lucky,” she says, threading her arm through mine as we turn toward the tavern.

The Howling Moon’s sign glows faintly ahead—half the bulbs dead, the others flickering like drunken stars. Home turf. The kind of place where everyone knows you by name, and most have a scar to prove it.

For a heartbeat, it feels normal—two girls walking home through the Hollow, snow falling in lazy spirals, the night finally, mercifully still.

Then Naomi stiffens beside me. Her nose twitches once—Frostclaw senses picking up what I haven’t yet.

“What is it?” I ask, already drawing a blade.

She tilts her head, listening. “Something in the alley. Blood.”

I catch the scent a second later—iron, sharp and wrong, cutting through the smoke and sugar of the streets.

The playful warmth drains out of the world.

The alley to the right of the tavern is a vein of shadow. The single lamp over the service door hums and sputters, its light barely cutting through the falling snow.

Naomi sniffs once, low in her throat. “There.”

I draw my dagger before I even see what she’s pointing at. The metal catches the lamp glow for half a heartbeat, a dull reflection in all that dark.

We move together—she silent despite the boots, me angling wide to cover her flank. The smell hits first.

Iron. Ozone. The kind of metallic tang that coats your teeth and never leaves.

Then I see her.

Kael. Crumpled against the brick like a discarded doll, snow already starting to stick in her hair. Her blazer is soaked dark, half ripped at the seam, and when I drop to my knees, the heat rolling off her skin nearly scalds my hands. Summer magic still leaking out—weak, but alive.

“Kael.” My voice isn’t loud, but it scrapes. “Hey, sunshine. You still with me?”

Naomi’s already halfway shifted, claws pressing through her gloves, eyes catching what little light there is. She kneels beside me, breath fogging the air.

Pulse—there. Faint but steady.

“Somebody worked her over and then dumped her here,” Naomi mutters. “Why here?”

I shake my head, scanning the walls. That’s when I see it—just above her shoulder, burned into the brick itself. The letters charred deep, edges still smoking faintly.

ONE WAS A MESSAGE.

The words crawl down my spine like frost.

Naomi whispers, “Kess—”

“I see it.” My grip tightens on the dagger. “And I think we just got our invitation.”

The lamp above us flickers once and goes out, leaving only the soft hiss of snow and the steady, sickening heat coming off Kael’s body.

The Howling Moon’s back room smells like alcohol and old wood. Naomi kicks the door shut with her heel while I shove the cluttered table clear—bottles and cards scattering to the floor.

“Lantern,” I bark, and one of the bartenders scrambles to obey before bolting. The light flares, harsh and yellow.

Kael looks worse under it. Her skin’s gone gray under the heat-glow, lips cracked, burns spidering along her arm where the Summer magic’s trying to heal and hurt her at the same time.

Naomi’s already tearing through the med kit, sleeves rolled, focus sharp. “Hold her steady.”

I grip Kael’s shoulders while Naomi wraps bandages over the bleeding. Kael twitches once, muttering nonsense under her breath. The sound makes my stomach turn.

“She’s burning herself from the inside out,” Naomi murmurs. “Her body’s trying to restart its magic system, but it’s overloaded.”

I don’t answer. I’m already pulling out my phone.

“Mira first,” Naomi says.

“Obviously.”

I hit call. It rings. And rings.

Voicemail.

I hang up, try again.

Voicemail.

My hand tightens around the phone until the plastic creaks. Mira never turns her phone off. Never.

Naomi looks up, reading my face. “Try Rori.”

I do. The call barely rings once before it connects.

Rori’s voice comes through, tight and raw. “We felt it. We’re coming.”

The line cuts.

I stare at the screen, confusion souring into something colder. “Felt it?”

Naomi stops wrapping for half a second, meeting my eyes. She doesn’t answer. Neither of us breathes.

Kael groans, heat flaring under my hands again. The lantern light wavers.

“Whatever they felt,” I say, backing away to give Naomi space, “it just hit harder.”

Naomi nods grimly. “Then they’d better hurry.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The back-room door explodes inward on a gust of snow and ozone. The lantern flame gutters sideways, throwing shadows up the walls.

Mira steps through first. She doesn’t so much walk as arrive—eyes unfocused, pupils pinpricked, the air around her bending from the heat she’s not trying to hide. The scent hits before she speaks: smoke and starlight, sharp enough to sting.

Rori’s right behind her, jaw tight, keeping a careful distance like someone walking a cliff edge.

Every sound in the tavern dies. Even the pipes stop their low hiss.

Mira crosses the room without looking at anyone. Her boots leave faint scorch prints on the warped floorboards. She drops to her knees beside Kael.

“Hey,” I start, but the word feels wrong, too loud.

Her hands hover over Kael’s body, trembling, fingers twitching like they’re remembering how to touch something that won’t break. Magic crawls beneath her skin—lightning caged under glass.

Kael stirs once, a faint gasp. Mira flinches as though it burned her. No tears, no words—just that terrible, brittle silence.

Naomi starts to move, instinct more than thought. “Mira—”

I catch her wrist, squeeze hard. “Don’t.” My voice is a whisper. “You’ll get burned.”

The heat in the room climbs by degrees, steady, suffocating. Rori finally steps forward, but even she doesn’t try to touch Mira.

For a long minute, none of us breathe. The only sound is Kael’s uneven one.

Mira lowers her head until her forehead almost touches Kael’s shoulder. When she exhales, the air shivers.

The fire hasn’t broken loose yet—but you can feel it waiting.

Kael moves —barely. A twitch of fingers, a breath that rattles instead of stops.

“Mira,” she croaks, voice sandpaper.

Mira’s head snaps up. She catches Kael’s wrist so fast the air cracks, grip firm but trembling. “I’m here,” she whispers—hoarse, almost childlike.

The room shifts with her touch. Light thickens, heat bleeding through the floorboards, making the lantern glow too bright. The walls seem to pulse with it, the same rhythm as Kael’s heartbeat stuttering under Mira’s hand.

Naomi flinches back, and I feel my own pulse climb, instincts screaming move, but I don’t. No one does.

Kael’s eyelids flutter. For half a second, her eyes actually focus on Mira. “Cassie…” The word scrapes out between shallow breaths. “Trap…”

Then she’s gone again—back under, chest rising slow and uneven.

Mira doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

The fire in her eyes doesn’t flare—it stills, the way a blade stills before it strikes.

And every instinct I have tells me Dominveil is about to burn.