The scarecrows were rotting again.
Isla stood at the edge of the Hallwell orchard, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The air smelled of damp hay and dying apples. She tightened the shawl around her shoulders and moved toward the far field, where the mist never fully cleared and the crows never stopped watching.
It was her chore to tend the crops. The Hallwells believed fresh air made for a clear mind, though Isla doubted fresh air had ever silenced the screaming in anyone's skull. Still, the work kept her hands busy. The goats needed feeding, the orchard needed pruning, and the frostbitten pumpkins needed hauling to the compost heap.
She worked until the sun dipped behind the trees, casting the world in shadow.
And that's when she saw it.
A parchment, nailed to the inside of the woodshed door—one she was certain hadn't been there earlier. Thick paper. Ink as red as blood. No signature. No seal.
Just seven words:
"Midnight comes for you, Isla Blackwood."
She stared at it, unmoving, as the wind whispered through the trees. Her breath came out shaky. She reached for the parchment, but it crumbled into dust the moment her fingers touched it.
Gone. Like it had never existed.
She backed away, heart pounding against her ribs.
The name.
Her name.
Someone—or something—had been here. Watching her. Waiting.
She didn't return to the manor.
Instead, Isla ran.
The orchard blurred past in shades of black and crimson, mist curling at her heels like grasping fingers. The breath in her chest was thin, sharp. Every instinct screamed to go back, to lock the doors, to pretend it hadn't happened.
But something deeper—something older—pulled her toward Hollowmere.
By the time she reached the village, night had fallen. Lanterns flickered dimly behind shuttered windows, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Hollowmere always seemed quieter after sunset, like it held its breath for something.
She didn't know where she was going—only that she needed to see him.
Caius.
The boy with the thief's grin and the storm-colored eyes. He was a stranger. But somehow, the only thing in her world that made sense anymore.
She found him in the alley behind the inn, crouched near a pile of firewood with a satchel slung over one shoulder and a half-eaten apple in hand.
"Didn't think you'd come looking for me," he said without turning.
Isla stepped into the alley, clutching her cloak tight. "You don't know me."
Caius stood and turned, gaze unreadable. "No. But you're not the only one being followed."
She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket—a coin, blackened and cold-looking, etched with the same spiral mark she'd seen in her dream. "I found this in my satchel yesterday. I didn't put it there."
The air around them shifted, thick with unseen weight.
Isla swallowed. "I got a note. In the woodshed. It had my name on it. It said…" She shivered. "It said 'Midnight comes for you.'"
At that, Caius finally looked shaken.
"Midnight Circle," he muttered.
"What?"
He shook his head. "A rumor. Whispers I heard years ago up north. A cult, maybe. Or something worse. I didn't think it was real."
Isla took a step closer. "You're saying we're being hunted?"
He didn't answer right away.
But then he looked at her, really looked—eyes darker than before, voice quiet and serious.
"I think we've stepped into something neither of us understands."