Page 15

CLARA

I t’s been four days.

Four days since Thorn disappeared.

Four days since I felt the breath of the Grove rise up to meet me.

Now, the glade is still.

Even the vines feel reluctant, curling in on themselves like they’re waiting for something they don’t believe is coming. I’ve left offerings. Spoke to the roots. Sat for hours, sketching and whispering.

But nothing stirs.

And I feel it in my bones—that old ache of being left behind.

So when Julie flags me down outside the main cabin, clipboard in hand and concern tightening her usually-sunny face, I’m already brittle.

“We’ve got company,” she says. “Magic Board sent someone.”

I blink. “Why?”

Julie sighs, brushing wind-tangled curls from her face. “They’re doing a seasonal re-evaluation. New township expansion proposals triggered a site review.”

“Wait— rezone ?”

Julie grimaces. “Technically, yeah. They’re checking boundaries. Assessing land-use viability. The whole nine bureaucratic yards.”

“ Here ?”

Her voice drops. “The Grove.”

My chest seizes.

Julie puts a hand on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t panic just yet. They haven’t made any rulings. But they sent an inspector today. You’ll want to meet him.”

I do not want to meet him.

But I follow her anyway.

The inspector is already near the ward line, kneeling by the old boundary markers like they’re just cracked rocks and not ancient magic stones pulsing faintly with energy. He’s tall, mid-thirties maybe, with a clipboard of his own and enchanted glasses perched on a narrow nose.

When he looks up, his eyes gleam blue—a charm flicker.

“Ah, you must be the garden lead,” he says.

“Clara Monroe,” I say, voice cautious.

“Eliorin Vask,” he replies crisply, standing. “Magical Environmental Board, rural site division. Don’t worry—this is a standard procedural survey.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I lie.

He smiles politely. “Camp Director says you’ve spent the most time near the Grove?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you’ll understand the need for objective assessment. Our town’s growth plans include trail expansion and seasonal lodge zoning. If the Grove’s borders are flexible, there’s potential to reclassify part of the outer ring for public use.”

My throat goes dry. “That’s not… it’s not flexible .”

He frowns slightly. “Well, magical zones do shift based on active energy signatures. I’m detecting a low frequency here. Diminished output. That often signals a dormant site—possibly ready for controlled conversion.”

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” I say, soft but fierce, “you’re wrong. The Grove isn’t dormant. It’s grieving.”

He studies me for a moment too long. “I’ve heard people project onto elemental sites before. You’re clearly attached. But feelings don’t equal magical saturation. If the readings stay this low, it opens up a lot of options.”

Rage rises in me, slow and hot.

“I don’t think you get what this place is,” I whisper.

He scribbles something on his clipboard. “We’ll see.”

And just like that, he turns and walks off.

I stand there alone, heart hammering, fingers curled so tight around my bag strap they go numb.

Something has to be done.

I don’t care if Thorn’s hiding.

I need him now.

I don’t waste time.

That night, I gather everything I’ve got—soil reports, species lists, seasonal bloom records. I even tape my sketches along the cabin wall, each one labeled in my shaky, pencil-scrawled handwriting.

I stay up until dawn organizing it into a binder. Not just a presentation—a plea .

When I show up at the inspector’s little pop-up tent the next morning, Eliorin Vask looks genuinely startled.

“I ran a multi-tier analysis,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Here. Soil nutrient data before and after Grove interaction. Biological diversity plotted across the last three years. This isn't a ‘low-frequency’ zone, it’s a recovering ecosystem . You’re misreading the quiet.”

He takes the binder from me.

Flips it open.

Skims.

Closes it again.

“Well documented,” he says, polite as glass. “But ultimately, these aren’t binding indicators. Without active magical registration from the Grove itself—or a bonded guardian—these stats don’t meet the minimum criteria for exemption.”

“But it is bonded,” I snap. “You just don’t see him.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You mean the rumored sentinel? That’s unconfirmed. No documented sighting since the Rift era.”

My breath shakes. “He’s real .”

He offers me a practiced, bureaucratic smile. “If he wishes to submit a formal declaration of presence, I’ll include it in the file. But your personal attachment doesn’t qualify as a magical defense.”

I watch as he sets the binder aside like it weighs nothing.

Like everything inside it doesn’t matter.

I won’t win this with logic.

I won’t save the Grove with bar graphs and citations.

I need him .

I need Thorn.

I walk back to the garden after he leaves.

The binder feels heavier now, like failure soaked into its pages. I sit in the dirt, legs folded, arms wrapped around my knees, and stare at the vine bed where everything once felt alive.

And I cry.

Quietly.

Because it’s not just about rezoning.

It’s not even just about Thorn.

It’s about Dad .

He believed in things no one else saw. Swore trees talked to each other. Said soil had memory. He used to sit at the dinner table with mulch under his fingernails, trying to explain how life moves beneath what we call dead.

And I never had proof for him.

Not when the doctors asked what he meant.

Or when the family whispered that he wasn’t right .

He died with no one believing he was right .

Except me.

And now here I am—face to face with the same disbelief, the same sterile dismissal, and I’m still coming up short.

I wipe my eyes and whisper to the earth beneath me, “I couldn’t prove it for him. But maybe I can for you.”

The Grove doesn’t stir.

But I feel the pulse of it.

Faint.

Waiting.

If I can’t give them data, I’ll give them wonder.

If I can’t win with logic, I’ll win with truth .

But I can’t do it alone.

I stand, grab the binder, and head toward the heart of the Grove.

“Thorn,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Please. I need you.”