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THORN

S he calls for me.

Soft.

Desperate.

It winds through the roots like a song the Grove never expected to hear again.

I hear it from deep beneath the ward line, buried in silence, where I’ve hidden for days—maybe weeks. Time here stretches like vine tendrils. I measure its passage by how long I can go without imagining her voice.

Apparently, not long.

“Thorn,” she whispers again, and my name in her mouth burns worse than sunlight.

She doesn’t know I’m this close.

She wouldn’t guess I’m curled into the root-hollow of the heart tree, bracing myself against the ache of staying away. She thinks I’m gone. And maybe I should be.

But I can’t be.

Not when she’s crying to the soil. Not when she’s begging for something she can’t prove exists.

I feel her pain like it’s my own.

Because it is.

She thinks this is about saving the Grove.

But it’s about more than land or magic or moss.

It’s about a promise.

A quiet one she made to a father who believed in things no one else did. And now, she’s trying to carry that belief forward—with nothing but dirt under her nails and a binder of science no one will read right.

And I…

I want to help her.

More than that, I want to be seen .

By her.

Not as the monster in the woods. Not as some cursed relic of old magics.

But as the thing that stayed .

Still, I do nothing.

Because stepping forward, revealing myself to the inspector, the board, the town—that would break everything I’ve been built to preserve. I am the veil. I am the mystery. The protection is me .

And if I give that up…

The Grove becomes a tourist sign.

A project.

A pipeline to greed.

The Grove is old.

But not strong.

Not anymore.

And Clara… she’s too close already. Too tangled in the roots. Too soft and bright and seen . If I step into her world, I risk burning it down behind me.

I close my eyes.

She’s kneeling now.

Hands in the dirt.

Tears on the leaves.

And I stay hidden.

Because I must.

Because it’s safer.

Love has never been what I was meant to guard.

I dig my fingers into the soil.

It doesn’t fight me. It never does.

The Grove trusts me—even now, as I lie to it by omission. As I sit in the hollow of its dying heart and let her cry without answer.

I was made for duty.

Not desire.

And yet here I am, crumbling.

Because the longer I stay away, the dimmer the Grove grows. The vines retreat. The light falters. Clara’s presence was keeping it alive, and my absence is undoing her work, undoing her .

Her voice is still etched in my chest. Her laughter curls through my veins like old sap. I relax and feel the imprint of her palm in the soil where she knelt.

If I go to her, I risk breaking the magic that hides this place from the world.

If I don’t…

I risk breaking myself.

I don’t know which part is dying faster—the sentinel or the man.

Because there was a moment, not long ago, when I almost kissed her.

And now I’m here, alone, and she’s out there, pleading to ghosts.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The roots around me pulse once—faint, like a heartbeat echoing in a coffin.

I whisper, “I don’t know what to choose.”

For the first time in a thousand years, the Grove offers no answer.

I rise slowly, bones creaking like old limbs in winter.

The Grove senses it—the movement. The hesitation.

I place a hand on the nearest vine, one of the old sentient creepers that’s been here since the elven circle bound my soul to this place. Its leaves twitch under my palm, hesitant.

“I know,” I murmur to it. “You feel her absence too.”

The vine curls weakly.

“She’s not gone,” I say. “Just… waiting.”

The bark of the nearest tree groans softly, like an old lung exhaling.

“I’ll make it right,” I promise. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll protect you, like I always have.”

But the Grove doesn’t calm.

In fact, it grows quieter.

The vines stop shifting. The moss holds its breath. Even the roots below my feet still.

It’s not fear.

It’s doubt .

They’re not sure I can protect them this time.

And that makes my gut go cold.

Because if the Grove doesn’t believe in me anymore, maybe I’ve already failed.