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1

LUKA

The chisel slipped.

Luka Ashe cursed under his breath as a thin line of blood welled across his knuckle, dark against his weathered skin. Twelve years of woodworking, and he still couldn't keep his mind from wandering when it came to this particular project. He set down the tool and flexed his fingers, watching the cut seal itself with the accelerated healing that came with his bear shifter genetics.

Dawn light filtered through the windows of his workshop, casting long shadows across the organized chaos of his domain. Wood shavings curled like pale ribbons across the concrete floor, and the rich scent of cedar and oak mingled with the lingering traces of last night's coffee. This was his sanctuary, the one place in Hollow Oak where the ghosts of his past felt manageable, where the steady rhythm of creation could drown out the memories that still haunted his sleep.

The memorial piece sat half-finished on his workbench, the wood grain flowing like water beneath his hands. Thirteen small bears, carved from a single piece of ancient oak, their forms emerging from the timber as if they'd always been there, waiting.One for each member of the Thornridge Clan. One for each life lost to a rival's curse. One for each reason he woke up alone every morning.

His bear stirred restlessly beneath his skin, recognizing the emotional weight of what he was creating. The animal had been more agitated lately, pacing behind his ribs like a caged thing. At thirty-five, Luka had learned to interpret his shifter side's moods, but this felt different. Less grief, more... anticipation. As if something fundamental was about to change.

He picked up the chisel again, focusing on the delicate work of defining the final bear's features. This one would be smaller than the others—his nephew Marcus, barely sixteen when the curse struck. The boy had been destined to inherit Luka's place as clan beta, quick-witted and brave in the way that only the young could be. Now he existed only in memory and the growing collection of wooden figures that lined Luka's workshop shelves.

The Blue Ridge Mountains stretched beyond his windows, their peaks shrouded in the perpetual mist that helped hide Hollow Oak from human eyes. The town had been his refuge after the massacre, a place where supernatural beings could exist without explanation or apology. Elder Varric had welcomed him with the kind of quiet understanding that came from someone who'd seen his share of loss. The Council had given him purpose as one of their unofficial guardians, and the townspeople had given him space to heal.

He'd built a good life here. Quiet, predictable, safe. His furniture graced half the homes in Hollow Oak, and his reputation for quality craftsmanship had spread to neighboring supernatural communities. People trusted him with their most precious commissions like baby cribs for new parents, hope chests for young couples, memorial pieces for those who understood loss.

But good wasn't the same as complete.

A breeze stirred through his open window, carrying with it the scent of lilacs and something that made his bear lift its head with sudden interest. Old magic, wild and untamed, threading through the morning air like a half-remembered song. The hair on his arms rose as the energy pulsed against Hollow Oak's protective wards, sending ripples through the carefully maintained barriers that kept their sanctuary hidden.

Luka set down his tools and moved to the window, his amber eyes scanning the misty landscape. In the distance, Moonmirror Lake reflected the early light like polished silver, its surface undisturbed by the supernatural current he could feel building in the air. The town's shops and cottages dotted the shoreline, their chimneys just beginning to release thin streams of smoke as their occupants started their day.

Everything looked normal. Everything felt wrong.

His bear was fully alert now, muscles coiled with the need to investigate whatever was disturbing the magical equilibrium. Luka had learned to trust his shifter instincts. They'd kept him alive when the Thornridge Clan fell, warning him just in time to escape the curse that claimed his family. Those same instincts were screaming now, pulling him toward the eastern edge of town where the old cemetery lay hidden among ancient oaks.

He grabbed his flannel shirt from the back of his chair, shrugging it on over the black thermal that hugged his broad frame. His reflection caught in the window glass of six feet five inches of controlled power, chestnut hair still tousled from sleep, amber eyes alert with growing concern. The scar across his left forearm caught the light, the intricate pattern of claw marks serving as a permanent reminder of the last time he'd trusted his bear's judgment over human caution.

That scar had saved his life. Maybe these instincts would save someone else's.

The workshop door opened with a soft creak that he'd been meaning to oil but somehow never got around to. The morning air was crisp against his skin, carrying the promise of winter soon in its bite. Hollow Oak was beautiful in the early hours, when the mist clung to the mountains and the magic felt thick enough to touch. But today, something was different. The very air seemed to thrum with possibility, and his bear responded with a low rumble of recognition.

Whatever was coming, it was already here.

Luka's boots crunched against the gravel path as he made his way toward the cemetery, following the inexplicable pull that grew stronger with each step. The mist seemed thicker than usual, swirling in patterns that defied the gentle breeze. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision—not the natural play of light and dark, but something more deliberate. More aware.

The protective wards hummed around him, Hollow Oak's ancient defenses responding to whatever force was stirring the supernatural atmosphere. He'd helped maintain those barriers more than once, lending his earth-based magic to the collective effort that kept their town safe. But now they felt strained, as if something was pressing against them from the inside rather than trying to break in from without.

His bear urged him forward, every instinct sharpened to a razor's edge. In the distance, he could make out the weathered headstones of Hollow Oak's founding families, their carved names barely visible through the drifting mist. Something was happening there, something that his shifter nature recognized as significant even if his human mind couldn't yet understand what it meant.

The scent of lilacs grew stronger, mixing with the earthy smell of old graves and morning dew. But underneath it all was something else—something that made his bear pace withrestless energy and his pulse quicken with anticipation he couldn't name.

Luka had spent twelve years learning to live with loss, building walls around his heart that were stronger than any ward protecting Hollow Oak. But as he walked toward whatever waited in the cemetery, those walls began to crack. Not from any external force, but from something stirring deep inside him—a recognition that his carefully ordered world was about to be turned upside down.

And for reasons he couldn't explain, his bear couldn't wait to see what happened next.

2

LEENAH

"And here lies Ezekiel Thornwell, patriarch of one of Hollow Oak's founding families," Leenah Carrow announced, her voice carrying easily through the crisp morning air. She gestured toward a weathered headstone carved with intricate Celtic knots, its surface green with age and lichen. "Legend says he could speak to the mountain spirits and convinced them to share this sacred valley with supernatural refugees fleeing persecution in the old country."

Her tour group consisted of three werewolves from Asheville, a young witch couple, and a fae-blooded photographer documenting supernatural sites. They leaned in closer, hanging on every carefully researched word. Leenah had perfected this particular story over five years of leading ghost tours through Hollow Oak's historic cemetery, but the way her audience's eyes widened suggested she'd never lost her touch for dramatic timing.

"Of course," she continued with a slight smile, "what the legends don't mention is that Ezekiel's negotiations with the spirits involved a considerable amount of moonshine and ended with him passed out naked against this very headstone. Thespirits were more amused than offended, which is how we ended up with protective wards that hiccup whenever someone's had too much to drink."