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THORN

T he Grove stirs before I see her.

Roots twitch. Vines furl tighter around the southern stones. There’s a shift in the hum beneath the moss—subtle, but wrong. Foreign.

I rise from the soil in silence, the bark of my back groaning where it unfastens from the old oak’s hollow. Leaves rustle against my arms as I stretch, letting the green light pour over my skin. My feet never break a twig. They remember the weight of war.

She’s crouched by the herb bed.

Human.

Curvy and soft, with hair like loam in moonlight. She doesn’t move like a hunter or a mage. No sigils. No iron. Just a spade in one hand and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She hums.

I watch from behind a moss wall, veiled by the oldest ferns. My pulse is the slow, steady beat of root-thought—deep and cold.

She is not supposed to be this close.

The Grove is closed. Sealed after the Rift Summer. Julie knows this. Ryder enforces it. The others keep their distance, even that mouthy redhead with her saltfire aura.

So why is this one allowed?

She hums again, head tilted as she works, easing weeds from the soil like they matter. Like they’re worthy of gentleness. Her fingers are careful, not because she’s afraid, but because she’s listening.

And still, I do not trust her.

My kind learns early, humans mean flames or contracts. They do not come here without strings attached.

I step closer. The shadows lean into me.

And then she touches the vine.

The one near the boundary.

The ward line pulses, faint and sharp, like a tooth cracking. The vine flinches under her hand. I brace for a scream, for panic, for her to rip it loose or pull away and run.

But she doesn't.

She stays. Eyes wide, lips parted, but she doesn’t flinch. Her hand lingers a second too long before she murmurs something I can’t hear.

The Grove listens. So do I.

“Hello?” she calls out.

My muscles tense.

She’s not screaming. That’s worse.

She’s curious.

A human with curiosity is ten times more dangerous than one with fear.

I shift my weight. Moss coils up my leg, urging patience. I exhale through my nose, the air warm and damp from the tree’s breath. Her aura flickers—non-magical, but… not empty. Resonant. Like a tuning fork that’s just been struck.

That shouldn't be possible.

The last human who made the Grove tremble wore blood-red robes and carved a path of fire through the elder thicket. He died screaming between my hands.

This one? She hums to weeds.

“Back off, Thorn,” I murmur to myself.

But I don’t.

She straightens up when the wind shifts, clutching her clipboard like a shield. Her eyes scan the treeline. They pass right over me.

I let the shadows thicken.

If she steps one foot farther into the Grove proper, I’ll stop her. Not to harm. Just to warn.…probably.

I sense movement. Familiar.

Ryder.

The fish brute sloshes out of the mist near the eastern trail, half-drenched and already scowling.

Good.

He’ll send her packing.

I slink into the roots and listen.

“You Clara?” Ryder barks.

Her voice is soft. “Y-yes.”

“Don’t touch any trees that have names carved in the bark. Especially near the Grove.”

A pause. Her energy stutters. She blinks. “Is there a reason?”

Ryder takes too long to answer. Typical.

“They’re not trees anymore.”

He turns and leaves.

That’s the best he’s got? Useless fish.

The girl—Clara—sits back, rattled but not terrified. She's processing.

She looks at the Grove again.

Her gaze snags on the older trees—my kin, long dormant.

Something in her expression twists. Not fear nor suspicion.

Sadness.

She sees them. Like they’re sick. Or grieving.

I don’t move. Can’t.

She whispers something to herself. I don’t catch it. Wind carries it too fast. She rises and dusts her hands off, slowly, like she doesn’t want to break the moment by standing too quick.

Then she’s gone.

Back down the trail. Back toward the cabins.

I remain where I am until her scent fades—moss and lemon balm and something earthier beneath it, like dried roses.

The Grove stills.

But I do not.

She will come back.

I can feel it in my bark. In the roots under my feet. In the ache of the old tree behind me—its branches lift just an inch higher when she was near, like it wanted to be seen.

I lean a hand against its gnarled side, closing my eyes.

“I know,” I murmur.

It doesn’t answer. It never does.

But the leaves above rustle once, sharply.

She is not just another intruder.

And that makes her even more dangerous.

...But the leaves above rustle once, sharply.

She is not just another intruder.

And that makes her even more dangerous.

I begin to turn, to sink back into the trees where I can disappear. But I pause.

The vine she touched—Delira’s Twist—still trembles.

That shouldn’t happen. The Grove responds and recedes quickly, especially from the unmarked. But now, its leaves remain curled toward the path where Clara walked away. Almost… yearning.

I step forward, crouching beside it. My fingers hover above the curling green.

Heat lingers in the stem. Not magic. Just… warmth.

The imprint of her.

I close my hand around it gently, letting the sensation bleed into me. Her presence wasn’t loud or invasive. It was soft. Patient. Like rain on old stone.

For a moment, my vision narrows, bark tightening across my chest.

She didn’t belong here. She should’ve felt the wards, heard the trees warn her off. But she didn’t run.

And worse, a part of me didn’t want her to.

I rise slowly, breath shallow.

The vines whisper her name back to me.

“Clara.”

It isn’t just her touch that lingers.

It's the feeling that—for the first time in decades—the Grove isn't watching me .

It’s waiting for her .