Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
The training was brutal.
For two weeks, Hazel’s life became a cycle: teach kindergarten during the day (on modified schedule, with Orion shadowing her constantly), then train with Meadow until she was too exhausted to stand.
Meadow pushed her hard. Control exercises where Hazel had to grow specific plants in specific patterns. Shielding work where she learned to contain her magic instead of letting it leak everywhere. Combat drills where Meadow threw magical attacks and Hazel had to defend using only plant magic.
She failed. A lot.
“Again,” Meadow barked after Hazel’s vines dissolved under a blast of fire magic.
“I can’t—”
“You can. Your mother could create walls of thorns that would stop anything. You have the same power. Use it.”
Hazel dug deep, pulling on the magic that hummed in her bones. The earth responded, roots shooting up and braiding together into a barrier thick enough that Meadow’s next fireball barely singed it.
“Better. Again.”
By the end of each session, Hazel was covered in dirt and plant matter, shaking with exhaustion, her magic depleted to dregs.
And always, Orion watched from the edge of the training yard. Present but distant. Professional.
It hurt more than Hazel wanted to admit.
“He’s protecting himself,” Meadow said one evening after Orion had left to patrol. She handed Hazel tea that tasted like sunshine and made the exhaustion fade. “Familiars learn early that attachment is dangerous. Every witch they protect eventually either dies or masters their power and moves on. Caring makes the loss harder.”
“My father cared anyway,” Hazel pointed out.
“Your father was extraordinary. And young for a familiar—only fifty years in service when he met your mother. He hadn’t learned to guard his heart yet.” Meadow studied Hazel over her teacup. “Orion’s been doing this for three centuries. He’s had a lot of practice building walls.”
“So what, I’m supposed to just accept that whatever this is between us will never be real?”
“I’m saying that walls built over three hundred years don’t come down easily. If you want him, you’ll have to be patient. And persistent.” Meadow smiled. “Your mother was both. It took her two years to convince your father that their bond was more than just magic.”
Two years. Hazel might not have two years, not with Mara hunting her.
“Why hasn’t she attacked again?” Hazel asked. “It’s been two weeks since the school. Radio silence.”
Meadow’s expression darkened. “She’s planning something. Mara doesn’t give up once she’s found a target. My guess is she’s gathering power, preparing for a real assault. These wards will hold against minor attacks, but if she brings her full coven…” Meadow trailed off. “We need you ready.”
“I’m trying—”
“You’re doing well. Better than expected, actually. Your mother’s power is strong in you.” Meadow paused. “There’s something else. A technique your mother used. Incredibly powerful, but also dangerous.”
“What kind of technique?”
“Bonding your magic to your familiar’s. Creating a true partnership where your power and his merge. It would make you both stronger—strong enough to face Mara, maybe. But it requires complete trust. Complete openness. And for a familiar as guarded as Orion…” Meadow shook her head. “I don’t know if he’d agree to it.”
Hazel thought about Orion’s careful distance, his insistence that the bond wasn’t real.
“He won’t,” she said.
“Then you’ll have to face Mara without that advantage. Which means we train harder.”
Hazel groaned. “I’m already training until I pass out.”
“Then we’ll train until you get strong enough that you don’t pass out.” Meadow’s smile was wicked. “Same time tomorrow. And Hazel? Wear clothes you don’t mind destroying. We’re working with thorns.”
—
Late that night, Hazel couldn’t sleep.
She was staying at Meadow’s cottage—safer than her own place, better wards. But the guest room felt too quiet, too isolated, and her mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
Magic. Mara. Her parents’ death. Orion’s careful distance.
Hazel gave up on sleep and padded downstairs barefoot, thinking to make tea.
She found Orion in the kitchen.
He was in human form, standing at the window and staring out at the dark woods. He’d pulled on jeans but nothing else, and moonlight painted silver across his skin and the lean muscle of his back.
He looked lonely.
“Can’t sleep either?” Hazel asked softly.
Orion didn’t jump—he’d probably heard her coming. “Too quiet. I keep expecting an attack.”
“Meadow thinks Mara is planning something big.”
“She’s right.” He turned to face her, and in the darkness his eyes seemed to glow faintly. “I can feel dark magic circling. Testing the wards. Waiting.”
“Comforting.”
His mouth quirked. “Sorry. Not my strong suit.”
“What is your strong suit?”
“Keeping you alive.”
“Right. The job.” Hazel moved to the counter, busying herself with making tea she didn’t really want. “How many witches have you protected, Orion? You said twelve, but what were they like?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to understand. You keep saying the bond isn’t real, that what I’m feeling is just magic. So tell me about the other witches. Did they all feel it too? This pull?”
Orion was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Most did. The bond creates connection. But connection isn’t love, Hazel. It’s biology.”
“Did any of them fall for you?”
“A few thought they had.”
“And?”
“And I maintained professional distance until they were safe, then moved on. They recovered. Found real partners—human or witch, people who could give them normal lives. People who weren’t bound by duty and magic.”
“What if they didn’t want normal? What if they wanted you?”
“Then I did them a favor by leaving.” His voice was firm. “I’m not a person, Hazel. I’m a familiar. A magical construct created to serve. The human I was died three hundred years ago. What’s left is duty and power and not much else.”
Hazel turned to face him. “I don’t believe that.”
“Believe what you want. It doesn’t change reality.”
“You said my father was a familiar. That he became mortal for my mother and it made him more alive than centuries of immortality.” Hazel stepped closer. “If he was a magical construct with nothing but duty, how did he do that?”
“He was—” Orion stopped. Started again. “Different. Younger. He hadn’t learned—”
“He hadn’t learned to lie to himself?” Hazel was close enough now to feel the heat radiating off Orion’s skin. “You feel something. I know you do. The bond goes both ways, and when you’re not shielding, I can sense it. You care. You’re just too scared to admit it.”
“I’m not scared.” But his voice was rough. “I’m practical. Falling for you would be a disaster.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d lose my powers. Become mortal. Become useless at the exact moment you need protection most.” His hands came up to grip her arms—not hard, but firm. Desperate. “If I become human and Mara attacks, I can’t defend you. You die. That’s what scares me, Hazel. Not feeling something—losing the ability to keep you safe because of it.”
The honesty in his voice stole her breath.
“Then don’t fall for me,” Hazel said quietly. “Fight it. Keep your distance. Stay immortal and powerful and alone.” She met his eyes. “But stop telling me what I feel isn’t real. Because it is. And it’s not going away.”
She pulled free of his grip and left the kitchen, her heart hammering.
Behind her, she heard Orion let out a long, shaky breath.
Progress, maybe. Or just more pain.
Hazel wasn’t sure which.
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