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The strength it took to say those words wasn’t lost on Delilah.

Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not while Wren still fought.

She reached for the ceramic jar of cool salve—lavender-root, beeswax, powdered elderberry—and dipped two fingers in, herhands no longer shaking. With solemn care, she placed her palm over Wren’s chest, fingers splayed wide. The skin beneath was too warm and too still at once, like embers waiting for breath.

Then she began to trace the sigils.

One for grounding, Salem-style runes braided with forest-born glyphs.

One for connection, drawn from Wren’s own notebook, worn with age and margin notes.

One for renewal.

The skin beneath her fingers shimmered faintly, reacting to the touch of old magic. A hum rose around them like low wind through pine needles, and Delilah inhaled deeply.

It’s not enough. Not yet.

But ithadto be.

She began the chant, her voice low, clear, and steady.

Each word dropped into the air like a stone sinking through water—rippling, resonant, reverent. Her magic stirred behind her ribs, soft at first, then building into something warm and raw. It climbed her throat, spread through her limbs, curled around her fingers like vines seeking sun.

She closed her eyes, leaned closer.

And Wren’s hand rose—slow, but sure—and closed around Delilah’s wrist with a surprising strength.

The chant faltered.

“Wren?” she breathed, blinking.

Wren’s lips parted. “Love isn’t safe,” she whispered. “It’s sacred.”

Delilah frowned, momentarily confused by the shift.

Wren’s eyes, fogged moments ago, were startlingly clear now—crystalline and rooted in something ancient.

“You’re trying to save me with your hands,” Wren continued, her voice almost a song, “when your heart’s the stronger vessel.”

Delilah’s lip trembled. “I can’t lose you. You’re my anchor, my roots—everything that holds me steady.”

Wren’s fingers tightened, then loosened, her breath catching.

“Andyou,” she said, “are the bloom.”

She smiled, soft, loving, tired.

“The forest knows you. It chose you. But it’s not enough to be chosen, my girl. You must choose it back. Choose your place in it.Claimit.”

Tears fell this time.

Delilah bent low, pressing her forehead to Wren’s knuckles. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Wren’s eyes slipped shut again. “But don’t just try, child.Be.”

Delilah stayed like that for a long moment, listening to the shallow rise and fall of Wren’s breathing.

Then she stood, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the shawl she no longer saw as a burden—but a mantle.