Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~5 min read
The dreams got worse.
After the attack at the school, after learning about her parents, after everything—Hazel couldn’t escape the nightmares.
Fire. Always fire. And her mother’s voice, young and desperate, chanting words Hazel still didn’t understand.
*Keep her hidden. Keep her safe. Let her live.*
Then her father’s voice, rough with pain but steady. “I love you. Both of you. Always.”
Hazel woke gasping, tears on her face, magic crackling under her skin like lightning.
The plants in Meadow’s guest room had grown again—responding to her distress even in sleep. The ivy covering one wall had spread across the ceiling. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible places.
A knock at the door.
“Hazel?” Orion’s voice. “I felt—are you okay?”
Of course he felt it. The bond worked both ways, apparently, even when he was trying to keep things professional.
Hazel dragged herself out of bed and opened the door. Orion stood in the hallway, barefoot and shirtless again, like he’d shifted from wolf form in a hurry. His silver eyes were concerned.
“Nightmare,” Hazel said. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Your magic is everywhere.” He gestured at the plants now growing through the floorboards. “May I come in?”
She should say no. Should maintain her own professional distance. Instead, she stepped aside.
Orion entered, and his presence immediately made the room feel smaller and safer all at once. He looked at the chaotic plant growth, then at Hazel’s tear-stained face.
“The memories are getting stronger,” he said quietly.
“I saw them die. In the dream. I saw—” Hazel’s voice broke. “They were so brave. And so in love. And they died because of me.”
“They died protecting you. That’s different.”
“Is it?” Hazel sat on the bed, suddenly exhausted. “They’d still be alive if I hadn’t been born. If my mother hadn’t had a child with her familiar.”
Orion crossed the room and knelt in front of her, bringing them eye-level. “Your parents chose to have you. Chose to love each other, despite the cost. That wasn’t your fault—it was their decision. One they never regretted.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I knew your father.” Orion’s voice went soft. “Not well—we met only a few times, at gatherings for familiars. But he talked about your mother constantly. About you. He said loving Elara, having you—it made him more alive as a mortal than he’d ever been immortal.”
Hazel stared. “You knew him?”
“Three hundred years, you meet a lot of people.” Orion’s mouth quirked sadly. “He was younger than me. Only been a familiar for fifty years when he met your mother. I thought he was a fool for giving up immortality.” He paused. “I was wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because he had twenty-seven years of real love. Of purpose beyond duty. Of being human again.” Orion’s eyes met hers. “Most familiars exist for centuries without ever feeling truly alive. Your father packed more life into twenty-seven years than most do in three hundred.”
The vulnerability in his voice made Hazel’s chest ache. “Is that what you are? Existing but not alive?”
Orion stood abruptly, the moment of openness slamming shut. “I’m here to protect you. That’s all that matters.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I can give you.”
Frustration flared, hot and sharp. “Why? Why can’t you just—” Hazel gestured helplessly. “The bond is real. What I feel when you’re near is real. I know you feel it too, I can sense it before you shove it down and pretend it doesn’t exist. Why are you so determined to deny this?”
“Because I’ve lived three hundred years, and you’ve been a witch for a week,” Orion said, his voice harder now. “What you’re feeling is magic and proximity and biological bonding. It’s not real affection—it’s your power recognizing mine. And if I let you believe it’s more, I’m failing my duty to you.”
“My father was a familiar. He fell for his witch. It worked.”
“Your father died at twenty-eight years old.” Orion’s eyes flashed. “Is that what you want? For me to give up immortality, become human, and then get myself killed protecting you because I won’t have the power to do it properly?”
“That’s not fair—”
“Life isn’t fair, Hazel. Your parents learned that. I learned it. And you’re going to learn it too.” He moved toward the door. “Get some sleep. Training starts early.”
“Orion—”
He paused, his back to her.
“If the bond isn’t real,” Hazel said quietly, “why do you sleep outside my door every night in wolf form? Meadow’s wards are strong enough that you could patrol the property instead. But you don’t. You stay close. Why?”
Silence.
Then: “Because the bond demands it. Not because I want to.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Hazel sat in her room full of impossible plants and tried not to cry again.
The bond demands it. Not because I want to.
She didn’t believe him.
But maybe she needed to start trying.
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