Damian's POV
I walked straight through the rows of trees. The orchard was wide, the ground soft beneath my boots, the wind heavy with whispered spells and warnings carved into bone charms hanging from branches. The closer I got, the thicker the symbols became — sigils etched into the bark, dangling fetishes made of feathers and teeth.
I could feel the magic trying to brush against me.
Warding spells. Deterrents.
To anyone else, they would’ve caused disorientation, nausea, even hallucinations.
But not me.
Their magic broke against me like glass on stone.
One of the perks of being me — magic didn’t stick.
Witches still hadn’t figured that out. Most didn’t live long enough to spread the word.
I crested the rise and saw it — the orchard’s heart.
An old farmhouse squatted like a toad
