Ellis tore through the streets of Fellmere, lungs burning, bag bouncing off his back. He was late. Again. Corwyn had told him morning. It was now almost one. He didn’t even want to think about the lecture coming his way.

  He skidded around the corner by the square, nearly collided with a parked pushbike, and kept going. But something on the far side of the street caught his attention. A group gathered outside Mary’s Hollow, one of the only two pubs in the village.

  It was part of the village’s witch walk, he realised. Tourists clustered around a man in a long coat, who stood beneath the swaying iron pub sign. Painted on the wood above him was a woman in a ragged black dress, arms raised toward a silver moon, her face half-hidden in a tangle of hair.

  “…Mary Grey,” the guide was saying. “Fellmere’s most infamous witch. Said to have vanished into those woods behind me after escaping the witch finders in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and ninety-four.”

  He gestured toward the narrow stretch of trees just beyond the road, little more than a sliver of woodland tucked between housing estates.

  “The witch finders searched for days. Every root, every hollow. But she was never seen again.”

  Ellis didn’t stop, but he slowed. Just enough to listen.

  “She wielded a powerful heirloom,” the guide went on. “A fang, long, curved, hollow inside. Hung from a black iron chain. The surface was carved with runes older than written history.”

  He let the pause hang in the air.

  “They say it let her cast spells no other witch dared attempt. It drew in magic, held it, amplified it, released it when she needed it most.”

  A woman in the group whispered, “What happened to it?”

  “Gone,” the guide replied. “Vanished the day she did. Some say it was buried. Others believe it was claimed by something in the woods.”

  He dropped his voice lower.

  “Locals say her spirit still haunts those woods. They speak of strange lights, whispers from the soil, birdsong no ornithologist recognises. And in 1969, a boy, merely ten years of age, by the name of Thomas Greaves wandered into the trees and disappeared.”

  Ellis felt a chill skate along the back of his neck.

  “The search went on for nearly a week. Then one morning, he was found in Lancashire. Not just anywhere, but Blackfern, over sixty miles away, another village famed for its history of witchcraft. But Tommy swore he’d never left the woods.”

  The group fell quiet.

  “He said the forest was strange. Alive. Full of strange plants and even stranger creatures. That eventually, a man found him. A man in strange clothes with an even stranger animal. The beast shifted shape, he said. First a hound. Then a bird. Then something like a bear, which let him ride on its back when he grew tired. To this day, Thomas still maintains this—”

  Ellis didn’t hear the rest. He was already gone, pounding down the road toward the trees, heart thudding louder than before.

  He stepped into the wooded pocket, his hoodie damp with the sprinkling of rain that wasn’t present before entering the trees. One shoelace trailed over the blanket of dried leaves.

  This wasn’t the Nithwood, not quite, but it was close and the air changed here. Thicker. Quieter. Like something unseen was watching. Waiting.

  He could already hear his mum’s voice in his head: “Those woods are no place for a thirteen-year-old to be wandering alone.”

  Not that she’d stop him. Too busy these days. Busy with work. Busy with potions. Busy with spells. Busy with the coven.

  She hadn’t even noticed how much he'd grown lately. Ellis was tall for his age, all elbows and knees, hoodie too short at the wrists, jeans too short at the leg. Mum hadn't realised he needed clothes that actually fit.

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  He followed the trail under bowed branches and uneven roots until the familiar barrier came into view: a wall of thick, thorny bramble that curled like claws across the path. Beyond it, normal life blinked on, football pitches, a kids’ park, swings squeaking in the wind. Just the other side of the thorns.

  He approached the crooked hut. It slouched beneath a leaning ash tree, chimney puffing lazy smoke into the sky. He raised a hand to knock.

  “I know you’re there,” came Corwyn’s voice from inside. “Your footsteps are loud enough to wake a sleeping Kobna Weaver, and they’re born without ears.”

  Ellis smirked and pushed open the door.

  Corwyn was crouched by the hearth, skinning some small, dark-furred creature with too many toes and glassy eyes that refused to shut. He wore his usual green jacket, sleeves rolled to the elbow, boots caked in dried mud. He always looked the same, like someone half-wild.

  He looked up, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, high cheekbones shadowed just enough to make him look like an old Greek statue. His beard, streaked with silver, framed a mouth that rarely smiled but wasn't exactly cold. Not to Ellis anyhow.

  There was something about his eyes, like they’d seen more than his years should allow. His hair, swept back and greying at the temples, gave him the air of a man weathered by time and weary experience.

  “Hello, Corwyn,” Ellis said.

  Orrun curled beside the small fireplace. Just a regular cat at a glance, but if you stared too long, the differences were easy to notice. Long limbs, too long for his body, striped smoke-grey fur, and ears far too big for his narrow head and his eyes too large for his face.

  Ellis crouched to rub Orrun’s stomach, his jeans tugging at the knees. He always moved a bit awkward, like his body had outgrown his sense of balance.

  “Stop that,” Corwyn said without turning. “It tickles.”

  “Sorry,” Ellis muttered. “I forgot you two are connected.”

  “We’re not connected,” Corwyn said, voice even. “We are the same.”

  This was the part Ellis struggled to get his head around.

  “But how can you be the same… being, in two different bodies?”

  “Simple,” Corwyn said. “We share the same thoughts, the same dreams. When a Warden is wounded, so is their Velkara. And if the Velkara is hurt, the Warden feels it too. Only the wound is split between us.”

  Ellis blinked. “That’s… far out.”

  Corwyn’s expression darkened slightly. “If I was to die… Orrun would die too. And if Orrun was to die, so would I.”

  That was one of those things Ellis had learned not to ask about.

  “Anyway, I thought we agreed on morning,” Corwyn added.

  “It is morning.” Ellis pulled out his phone. “Not even one yet.”

  Corwyn stood and moved toward the bench, sorting through a pile of dried moss, twisted roots, and what looked like a shrivelled lizard’s foot. An extremely large shrivelled lizard’s foot.

  “I came earlier,” Ellis lied. “You were still in there, so I left and came back. Thought maybe the Nithwood had finally swallowed you.”

  “Not yet,” Corwyn muttered. “I got what I needed. Mostly. Take this to Mirren’s shop. And don’t answer any weird questions about me.”

  Ellis smirked. “I think she fancies you.”

  “And that is why I need you to make the delivery.”

  He handed Ellis a bundle wrapped in wax paper. Ellis knew the weight already, the scent of damp earth and something bitter clinging to the cloth. Mirren always asked too many questions, but she paid fairly, and let him hang around the small village shop when he didn’t want to go home.

  Corwyn paused, eyes scanning him. “So. What’ve you learned this week?”

  “A new one,” Ellis said. “Wanna see?”

  “As long as it’s not Veydris. You almost burned the hut down last time.”

  “It’s not. Mum’s sister, Aunt Lucinda taught me this.”

  Everyone said he had Lucinda’s sharp nose and Mum’s eyes, wide, dark, always a bit too intense, like he was thinking about something he’d never say out loud. Except his hair had gone lighter lately. Like... like Dad's had been.

  “You know Lucinda?” he asked Corwyn.

  “I know her. And her son. He didn’t turn out quite as fortunate as you.”

  Ellis rolled his eyes. “Not the lecture again. I get it, amplified Mum, Lucinda, Gran, even Mirren. I’m the lucky one. Only one in ten boys born to witches inherit magic.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “No. You were going to remind me that boys are more likely to follow the Dark Step, that I shouldn’t be anywhere near the Nithwood, let alone inside it.”

  “Was I?” Corwyn asked, dryly.

  “You’re the one who takes me in there,” Ellis muttered. “And no, I’ve never heard him, never felt him, never been tempted.”

  Corwyn’s face shifted. Just slightly. Less tired, more wary.

  “Well,” he said. “Those little trips are going to be put on hold.”

  Ellis frowned. “Why?”

  “Something’s stirring near the border,” Corwyn said. “From the deepest corners of the forest. I don’t know what it is, but it shouldn’t be here.”

  “Then send it back. I can help.”

  “You’ll be going nowhere near the Nithwood,” Corwyn said firmly. “I am the Nith Warden. I guard the Gate. Not you, Ellis Fletcher. But… I am curious to see what you’ve learned.”

  Ellis reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a dark, flat stone. A rune had been carved into it using his mum’s junk drawer box cutter. He held it up, focused, and whispered, “Caleth.”

  The rune shimmered faintly, and a light breeze stirred the loose papers on Corwyn’s bench. One fluttered out the open door.

  “Breeze-summoner,” Ellis said. “For drying herbs. Or making dramatic exits.”

  “Pity you still need the stone,” Corwyn muttered. “You’re supposed to focus through emotion.”

  “That’s the part I struggle with.”

  And he meant it, because the spell drained him. More than it should have. His limbs suddenly felt like wet rope, and his vision dipped for half a second before he straightened.

  Corwyn noticed. Of course he did.

  But instead of commenting, he nodded once, then looked toward Orrun.

  The Lyth stood without a sound, padded across the room to the door, and leapt up, pulling the handle down with one paw. As he stepped into the open air, his body shimmered and stretched mid-leap, bursting into a Cinder-Crow, wings glowing at the tips like burning paper. The creature rose into the sky, smoke trailing from its feathers.

  The door slammed shut behind him.

  “Velkar can shift into four forms, can’t they?” Ellis asked.

  “They can,” Corwyn nodded.

  “I’ve only ever seen Orrun change into two,” Ellis said, “the Lyth, like he was before, and the Cinder-Crow.”

  Corwyn raised an eyebrow. “Well, I couldn’t very well walk into the village shop with an Eldertine by my side, could I?”

  He had a point.

  “Time you left,” Corwyn said.

  Ellis stayed rooted. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing that concerns you. Mirren will be waiting.”

  He didn’t want to go. Not really. The cottage smelled weird, but here... here, he felt at home. More at home than he ever felt at his own house.

  Still, he turned to leave. But as he passed the shelf above the door, something caught his eye.

  A mask, wooden, cracked, carved with symbols that almost moved if you stared too long. He was sure it hadn’t been there before.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Corwyn didn’t look at him. “It was delivered to me last night.”

  “Was it another Warden?” Ellis perked up. “I bet it was Tharic, wasn’t it?”

  “Goodbye, Ellis.”

  Corwyn opened the door, his hand firm on Ellis’s shoulder as he ushered him out. “Pay heed, Ellis,” he said. “Don’t stay out after dark, stay inside. Whatever’s moving out there doesn’t want to be seen, and more to the point, it was never meant to be.”