Page 17

CLARA

I knock on Hazel Blackmoor’s cabin door like I’m delivering a letter bomb.

The teenage camper opens it barefoot, already sipping something dark and probably illegal from a chipped mug. Her hair’s up in a mess of curls and pencils, and she squints at me like I’ve disturbed the flow of her daydreams.

“Clara Monroe,” she says, voice dry as burnt sage. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I hold up a folder. My fingers are trembling, but I keep my voice steady.

“I need help. Witchy help.”

Hazel raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s free.”

“I know it’s not.”

She leans against the doorframe and gives me a long, slow up-down. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘dark favors’ type. You sure you’re not lost?”

“No,” I say. “I’m desperate .”

That gets her attention.

She opens the door wider. “Come in before someone sees you. You look like guilt.”

Her cabin smells like burnt herbs, patchouli, and magic gone slightly sideways. There’s a fox skull on the mantle and a snake plant in the sink. I sit on the edge of a faded velvet chair, gripping the folder like it’s my last tether.

Hazel sinks into a beanbag and crosses her legs. “Alright. Spill it.”

So I do.

About the inspector, the re-zoning, and how all the data and proof in the world doesn’t mean anything if the Grove can’t defend itself.

About Thorn .

She listens without interrupting, except for one low whistle when I describe the barrier stones flickering.

“Damn,” she mutters. “They’re really going for it.”

I nod. “I need something. Something official. Sacred site designation, lost blessing mark, anything I can wave under Vask’s enchanted nose.”

Hazel taps her chin, mug balanced dangerously on one knee. “Most of those protections would’ve been buried in the original spellwork. Druidic stuff’s deep and layered.”

“I don’t need everything,” I whisper. “Just enough .”

She studies me for a long moment, then sets her mug down with a decisive thunk .

“Okay.”

My heart leaps. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ll help you dig through the Grove’s old sigils and runes, maybe trigger a residual. But—” she holds up one finger, sharp as a nail—“you owe me.”

I hesitate. “What kind of favor?”

Hazel grins, all teeth and mystery. “That’s for future me to decide. Could be small. Could be world-changing. That okay with you?”

I should say no.

But I don’t.

“Deal,” I whisper.

“Good girl,” she says, standing. “Grab your boots and that cute nervous energy of yours. We’re going root hunting.”

We catch the late-morning bus into town.

Hazel sits cross-legged on the vinyl seat beside me, chewing a sour candy and flipping through a leather-bound spell journal like it’s the Sunday comics.

“I’m just saying,” she mutters between chews, “if ancient druids wanted stuff found , they could’ve at least used decent ink. No one respects preservation spells anymore.”

I give her a look. “You’re thirteen.”

“Exactly. I’m already better at this.”

The Pinemere Historical Archive is half-forgotten and three-quarters mildew, tucked between the bakery and a nail salon that only seems open on Wednesdays. The clerk at the front desk doesn’t even look up when we come in.

Hazel winks at me. “I’ve got us two hours before she realizes I’m not legally supposed to be here. Let’s go.”

We head straight for the back stacks—past the tourist maps and faded war registries—until we find the old land ledgers. Most are brittle and hand-penned, curled at the corners like dried leaves.

“Here.” Hazel pulls out a folio marked FOREST SANCTUM—UNINCORPORATED ZONES.

I flip it open.

And there it is.

Drawn in fine, careful ink: a towering tree with four runes carved into its base. Beneath it, sketched faintly in smudged charcoal, a shape I know by heart—spiraling roots that echo the rhythm of Thorn’s hands when he weaves magic through the Grove.

Hazel whistles. “That’s a ward source. A big one.”

I run my fingers over the page, barely breathing.

“The seal’s still intact,” she mutters. “But dormant. It’s gotta be him .”

“It is him,” I whisper. “It’s Thorn’s tree. His origin.”

Hazel tilts her head, thoughtful. “And if we get this page in front of the Board... with the runes active again...”

“It proves sacred designation,” I finish.

She nods. “And if they still push for rezoning after that, they’re officially the bad guys.”

I close the folio gently.

My hands are shaking.

But for the first time since Thorn vanished, something sharp and certain roots itself in my chest.

We’re not done yet.

We ride the bus back to camp in silence.

Hazel hums some haunting tune under her breath, probably enchanted to keep the page from smudging in her bag. I stare out the window, the trees whipping past in a blur of late summer green.

But my mind won’t sit still.

It’s starting to click together now, like puzzle pieces reshuffling in my brain.

Thorn’s origin tree.

The runes we haven’t yet reactivated.

The Grove’s heartbeat going quiet without him.

They’re all threads, and I’m finally seeing the weave.

“We need more than proof,” I say softly.

Hazel glances up. “Yeah?”

“We need a demonstration . Something no one can ignore.”

She perks up. “Like a ritual flare?”

I nod. “Something strong enough to register with the Board’s detection charms. Something undeniable. Something… alive.”

Hazel smirks. “You’ve got that ‘girl with a mission’ energy. I approve.”

I tighten my grip on my satchel.

“We find the runes. We wake them. We bring Thorn back— not in secret this time.”

Hazel leans back smugly. “Told you you had it in you.”

I don’t smile.

But inside me, something begins to bloom again.

A root system of hope—delicate, but deep.

This time, I’m not going to fail.