Chapter 1
Brontë Ashwood had always believed the forest chose sides. The way the pines creaked when a storm rolled in, the way the wind curled itself around certain travelers and ignored others, none of it felt accidental. This morning, as she hiked toward the northern ridge with her satchel of herbs knocking against her hip, she was certain the forest had chosen to dislike her. Every branch seemed designed to smack her in the face.
She muttered a curse under her breath, brushing needles from her hair. The coven elders had insisted she harvest frostleaf before dusk, and frostleaf only grew where the shadows lingered longest. She didn’t mind doing the work. She minded what, or rather wh, she would inevitably run into.
Harley Thornheart loved the northern ridge. Loved it loudly. Brontë could already hear the faint echo of laughter drifting between the trunks. That infuriating laugh, sharp, bright, the kind that made birds pause mid-song. Harley was everything Brontë was not: loud where she was cautious, radiant where she was brooding, reckless where she was meticulous. And worst of all, Harley knew exactly how to get under her skin.
Brontë stepped into the clearing and found Harley kneeling beside a patch of frostleaf, her dark braid swinging over one shoulder as she worked. She wore that crooked smile, the one that suggested she’d known Brontë was arriving long before she actually did.
“Oh,” Harley said, her voice annoyingly warm. “If it isn’t the queen of storm clouds. Didn’t think I’d see you out this way without a lecture prepared.”
Brontë’s jaw tightened. “I don’t lecture. I offer guidance.”
“In a lecture tone,” Harley replied, plucking a leaf with exaggerated delicacy. “You here to steal my frostleaf? Because I was here first.”
“I’m not stealing. The coven sent me.”
“The coven sent me too.”
Of course they had. Elders always seemed to think pairing them on tasks might somehow temper their rivalry. It only worsened it. Brontë knelt opposite Harley, ignoring how the other witch’s presence prickled along her skin like static before a storm.
They worked in tense silence for several minutes. Harley hummed a tune—something lilting, teasing. Brontë tried to ignore how pleasant it sounded. The sun filtered through the branches above, throwing dappled light across Harley’s cheekbones. Brontë definitely did not stare.
Harley broke the quiet first. “You know, Brontë, you could at least pretend to enjoy working with me.”
“I do not dislike working with you,” Brontë said stiffly.
“Wow. High praise. Almost romantic.”
Brontë nearly dropped her basket. “Harl-”
A sudden crack split the air. Both witches froze. The forest seemed to inhale sharply around them. The ground trembled under their knees.
Harley’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t thunder.”
“No,” Brontë agreed, rising to her feet. “That was magic.”
A pulse of dark energy rolled through the trees, and the towering pines bent as if something massive was forcing its way between them. Brontë and Harley exchanged a look, reluctant allies now, whatever argument they’d been circling abruptly forgotten.
Harley brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, her bravado dimming. “Guess the forest’s in a bad mood too.”
Brontë felt her heartbeat steady with purpose. The danger was real, and despite everything, she trusted Harley’s instincts in a crisis. “Stay close,” she said.
Harley smirked faintly. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Together, they stepped toward the source of the disturbance, magic gathering at their fingertips. The forest no longer felt like it had chosen sides, it felt like it was pleading for help. And whether they liked each other or not, Brontë and Harley would answer the call.
Neither of them realized this moment, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the unknown, was the first crack in the wall they’d spent years building between them.
