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Delilah looked down at their hands.

“I’ve spent so long pretending I didn’t want this,” she said. “Trying to bury it under bitterness and herbs and reasons why it couldn’t work.”

“I know.”

“But last night…” Her voice cracked.

He lifted her chin with two fingers, gently.

“Last night,” he murmured, “was only the beginning.”

She blinked, lashes wet but proud. “I still don’t trust fate,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Just trustme.”

For a long, suspended moment, they just breathed—together. Then Delilah exhaled shakily and leaned her head against his shoulder.

In that moment, Rollo let himself believe that maybe the forest wasn’t the only thing worth saving.

19

DELILAH

The day had mellowed into golden hush by the time Delilah had gotten back to the store. She had just finished an order and was restocking when Hazel knocked on the apothecary door, her presence as gentle as a breeze through tall grass—but just as stirring.

Delilah had just finished bottling a fresh batch of feverroot syrup, sleeves rolled up, hair messily pinned atop her head with a twig she hadn’t realized she’d stuck there during her mixing frenzy. Thistle had claimed the sunny spot by the window, twitching his ears at every little rustle outside.

The knock wasn’t loud, but itfeltimportant.

“Come in,” Delilah called, wiping her hands on her apron.

Hazel stepped inside, her silhouette framed by late-day light, and Delilah’s breath ceased when she saw what she was carrying.

Nestled in her arms like a wilting bundle of vines, was a child. No—nota child. A dryad. Young, maybe a decade or two in age, though their kind didn’t age like others. The little one’s skin had gone pale, bark-gray instead of mossy brown, and faint white petals drooped from their tangled hair.

“She’s been touched by what’s sickening the forest,” Hazel said, voice even, though a sliver of worry cut through the calm. “She won’t take root. Refuses water. The others are afraid.”

Delilah’s heart lurched.

“Bring her here.” Her tone was brisk, but her fingers trembled as she cleared the long table near the hearth. “Lay her down gently. I’ll do what I can.”

Hazel obeyed without ceremony, setting the dryad down like she weighed nothing, brushing her fingers through the child’s limp hair. She whispered soft words in a language older than any spellbook, the syllables curling like roots through the air.

Delilah knelt beside them, her hand hovering just above the dryad’s sternum. Her magic buzzed low under her skin, uncertain.

The little dryad’s pulse was faint. Her connection to the land—muted.

It was like someone had poured rot into the roots of a flower and locked the sun away.

Delilah drew a slow breath and pulled her satchel to her side.

She began with the base—white ash for purification, violet sage for calming, honey-thistle for strength. Each herb ground carefully, whispered over, sung to. She added a single moonvine petal—rare, potent—and let it dissolve into the salve as it turned from pale blue to glowing silver.

“She’s not just fading,” Delilah murmured. “Something’sleechingher magic.”

Hazel nodded solemnly but said nothing.

Delilah placed her palms gently over the girl’s chest and belly and closed her eyes.