Page 14

THORN

T he storm has passed.

But I am still thundering.

I pace the Grove’s edge in silence, the scent of scorched bark and damp moss clinging to me like a second skin. The trees sway slower now, their unrest fading into whispers, but I can’t quiet myself.

Not after the way she looked at me like I wasn’t just bark and binding spells—but something more .

And gods help me, I did.

I do.

I sink to one knee beside the ward tree, resting my hand against its cold bark. It hasn’t brightened. It still flickers with its slow, dying pulse. But I can feel something new beneath it.

My pulse.

Out of sync.

Too fast.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to the roots. I can still feel the weight of her in the hollow. Her hand in mine. The heat of her breath on my mouth just before the sky ripped us apart.

We didn’t kiss.

We didn’t have to.

The ache says it all.

I growl low in my chest and drag my fingers down the side of the tree. Bark scrapes my knuckles.

This isn’t what I was meant for.

She deserves someone who isn’t tied to decaying roots and forest wards. Someone who doesn’t have vines woven through his veins or shadows for bones. Someone who can leave.

Who can choose her.

But the worst part?

I wanted to.

In that moment—just before the lightning—I wanted her lips on mine more than I’ve ever wanted to bloom, or burn, or breathe.

And that terrifies me.

Because I am not meant to want.

I’m meant to endure .

I rise, pacing again. The moss recoils under my feet like it knows I’m splintering.

I haven’t felt this hollow since the druids vanished.

Since they left me behind to guard silence and rot.

But Clara is not silence.

She is life.

Wild and soft and too full of questions. She walks like she’s afraid of stepping too hard, and yet—she’s louder than thunder in this place.

She makes the Grove bloom.

She makes me feel like I was more than just a mistake carved from old soil and duty.

And yet I cannot allow this.

Because one day she’ll leave—whether by choice or by age or by fate. And I’ll still be here.

Bound. Buried.

Waiting for the next storm.

I dig my fingers into the earth, claws of bark curling around loose soil.

She didn’t ask for this.

And I shouldn’t have let it begin.

I stay hidden.

Not just from her but from the Grove itself.

I retreat deep into the root caverns beneath the heart tree, where no light filters, where even the vines don’t reach unless summoned. The silence here is total. Heavy. Like being buried alive while still breathing.

It’s safer this way.

For her .

I don’t know how long I’ve been here—time bends in the roots. The forest still moves without me. The vines still bloom when the sun hits them right. But I don’t rise. I don’t speak.

Because if I let myself love her…

If I let myself hope…

She’ll suffer for it.

I’ve seen it before. Human hearts stretched too close to the wild—they crack. They don’t survive magic’s weight. They weren’t built to carry it.

Clara is not meant for shadow and rot. She is sunlight and rhythm and warmth. And even if some foolish part of her thinks she wants this— me —she doesn’t know what it would cost.

I won’t be the one who teaches her that.

So I stay beneath the Grove.

Out of reach.

Out of sight.

Even when I feel her near the stone line, even when I sense her soft voice calling into the trees.

I do not answer.

Because loving her would be a beautiful cruelty.

And I have hurt enough things in this life.

The Grove misses her.

It doesn’t speak in words or weeping—but in stillness.

The roots go slack beneath my feet. Vines that once stretched eagerly toward the path hang dull, their leaves turning in on themselves. The moss grows brittle at the edges, greying. Even the light filtering through the canopy has changed—less dappled, more distant.

I feel it all.

Like a body missing breath.

And I know why.

It’s because she’s not laughing.

She’s not humming those clumsy songs while planting marigolds or reading about root systems in that soft, reverent voice. She’s not brushing her fingers over the bark like it might shatter or bloom depending on her mood.

She hasn’t returned.

Because I’ve made her think she’s unwelcome.

The Grove doesn't understand the choice I've made.

It only knows absence .

And it grieves her like rain that never came.

I kneel beside the sacred tree, hand pressed to its fading pulse, and whisper without meaning to, “She was the first thing this place wanted in decades.”

The bark doesn't answer.

But the pain in the soil is answer enough.