Page 21

CLARA

T he morning sun creeps over the treetops like it’s still making up its mind.

But I’m already wide awake.

Heart racing. Stomach twisted. Palms damp with nerves.

There’s a hearing scheduled on the main lawn—Magical Environmental Board presence confirmed, full documentation review on deck. Official. Public. And completely out of my comfort zone.

But I can’t sit back and watch them erase what we’ve fought for. What he is.

So I run my thumb over the edge of my dad’s old field notebook for luck, square my shoulders, and knock on the first door.

“Julie?”

She answers with sleep still clinging to her eyes and a coffee mug that says Plant More, Worry Less.

I don’t even let her sip.

“I need you to speak at the Grove hearing.”

She blinks. “Now?”

“Please.”

Her brow furrows. “You okay?”

“I just… I need people to see what we’ve built. What’s here.”

Julie glances over her shoulder, then nods. “Give me five minutes and a clean shirt.”

Next, I find Callie sorting seed trays behind the greenhouse. She’s mid-count and halfway through a conversation with a butterfly perched on her braid.

“Clara,” she says with a smile. “You look like a mission.”

“I need your voice.”

She tilts her head. “About?”

“The Grove. Its integration potential. The way it’s evolved with my dad’s methods. With mine.”

Her smile widens. “You want me to wax poetic about dirt and harmony in front of people in robes?”

“Yes,” I say, dead serious.

She sets down her tray. “Then I’m in.”

Last stop is Hazel.

She’s already in the clearing near the stone ring, chalking wards into the grass with her usual mix of mischief and concentration. Her hair’s pulled into twin buns, and she’s got a toad nestled in her side pocket.

“Figured you’d come,” she says without looking up.

“I need you too.”

Hazel stands, wipes her hands on her pants. “Told you you had main character energy.”

I smile despite myself. “Hazel, this is serious.”

She shrugs. “I’ve been twelve since forever. No one listens to me anyway. But maybe today they should.”

My chest tightens. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “Let’s go piss off a council.”

We stand under the old pavilion with a small crowd watching.

Eliorin Vask is already here—clipboard ready, charm lenses reset. His demeanor says “formality,” but his eyes keep darting toward the Grove like it might bite him.

Good.

Julie speaks first, soft but grounded. She talks about restoration, about cycles, about how this place healed her students more than any camp curriculum ever could.

Callie follows, eloquent, precise. She cites integration metrics, hybrid species resilience, soil rejuvenation that exceeds expected timelines. Her voice is clean data wrapped in emotion.

Hazel? She pulls no punches.

“This forest talks back,” she says. “It dances. It remembers. ”

By the time it’s my turn, I’m shaking.

But I step up anyway.

Hold my dad’s notebook against my chest.

And speak.

“This Grove doesn’t need protecting,” I say. “It’s doing that itself now. But it deserves recognition. Because it’s not just land. It’s not just flora.”

I look toward the tree line.

“I’ve seen what it can do when someone believes in it.”

And just as I finish, vines bloom behind me.

Petals catch the breeze.

And the Grove speaks.

Not with words.

With presence .

And finally, they listen.

The inspector doesn’t speak at first.

He just stares.

At the vines blooming behind me.

The petals drifting gently around Hazel’s boots.

At the sacred tree pulsing with slow, golden breath.

And then, with a visible swallow, he removes his charm glasses.

“This… was not in the initial survey,” Eliorin says, voice low.

Julie crosses her arms. “Because you weren’t looking .”

He scans the clearing again, slower this time. More human. Less clinical.

Callie steps forward, extending a copy of my restoration plan—neatly annotated, complete with integration overlays, projected biodiversity outcomes, and a record of magical evolution over the past six weeks.

“This isn’t a zone to be converted,” she says. “It’s a sanctuary redefining itself.”

The inspector flips through it, brows drawn tight.

Hazel leans in, grinning. “Say it with me: ‘I was wrong.’”

He ignores her, of course. But after a pause, he clicks his pen closed and tucks his papers under one arm.

“I’ll update the board,” he says finally. “This site qualifies for sacred designation under clause thirteen-point-d.”

I nearly forget to breathe.

He nods once, curt. Then turns.

And walks away.

No argument or power play.

Just retreat.

And as he steps beyond the Grove’s ring, a soft wind stirs the trees—like the forest itself is exhaling relief.

I glance toward the sacred tree.

And I swear, for just a second, it smiles .

The crowd thins.

Julie claps me on the back, Hazel vanishes to go hex a vending machine, and Callie’s already explaining root bonding to a curious reporter from the Arcane Daily .

Then a council liaison, a woman in crisp robes with a clipboard enchanted to float beside her—approaches me.

“Miss Monroe,” she says, formal. “Given your contributions and the Grove’s newly reclassified designation, the board would like to offer you official stewardship. Full magical and ecological authority.”

I blink.

“Me?”

She smiles. “You’re the reason this place still stands.”

The words hit me harder than I expect.

I glance toward the Grove.

And Thorn is there.

Not hidden.

Not waiting.

Just watching .

His eyes catch mine across the clearing. I can’t read his face—but I don’t have to.

Because he gives one slow, silent nod.

That’s all.

But it’s everything .

My chest tightens. I turn back to the liaison.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“I accept.”