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THORN

T he Grove hums with warning before I hear the scream.

It's faint, carried on wind, tangled in the rustle of leaves—but it’s there.

Young.

Panicked.

Too deep in the southeastern corridor of the old growth.

I’m moving before I think, before I even register that I’ve moved. The forest opens for me—vines curling back, bark whispering warnings along the rootline. The air sharpens as I pass, every tree leaning in as if pointing the way.

Someone’s lost.

And not just lost.

The Grove knows when a threat enters.

But this isn’t that.

This is fear without malice.

Confusion, not cruelty.

And the Grove calls me to answer.

When I reach the clearing, the scent hits first—burned ozone and raw sap. Someone cast recklessly here. Poor control. Overloaded intent. The magic hangs in the air like static just before a storm.

“Help!”

The voice again, closer this time.

I spot the caster crouched at the edge of a thorn bush, trapped by her own failed ward loop. No older than fifteen. Cloak too big. Staff half-broken at the tip, sparking in odd pulses.

She’s trembling.

I don’t step quietly.

I let her hear me come.

When she looks up, her eyes go wide. Round as coins. Every limb stiffens like she expects a monster.

And maybe she sees one.

But I kneel beside her anyway.

“You’re safe now.”

Her lip quivers. “I didn’t mean to cross the anchor line. I—I was just trying to trace ley-surge patterns for class, and then something bit my staff?—”

I inspect the splintered wood. Vine rot. Reactive.

The Grove wasn’t attacking.

It was responding .

“You used too much charge,” I say, voice low but steady. “You startled the thistle nets.”

Her brows pinch together, half in confusion, half in shame.

“I thought I was following the markers…”

“You were,” I say, nodding toward a barely visible totem half-buried in moss. “But this section hasn’t been fully rebonded yet.”

She bites her lip. “Am I in trouble?”

I study her.

Shaking. Smudged. Scared.

But not careless.

Just young.

“No,” I say. “You’re in the Grove.”

Then I reach down and unlace the ward tangle from around her ankle.

The vines hiss softly, not in anger, but warning—before falling away.

“Come on,” I say, offering a hand. “Let’s get you back to the main path.”

She hesitates.

Then takes it.

Her fingers are small in mine. Human. Fragile. But warm. Trusting.

As we walk, she glances up at me.

“You’re the guardian, right?”

I grunt. “Something like that.”

“They say you used to be invisible.”

“I was.”

“Why’d you stop?”

I look toward the canopy, where the light filters through in golden flecks.

“Because someone asked me to stay.”

She nods like she gets it, even if she doesn’t.

When we reach the edge of the training ring, Callie is there, pacing like she’s ready to sprout wings and search the forest herself.

The girl runs to her, and I hang back.

Watch from a few steps away.

Just long enough to see her safe.

Callie looks over the girl’s shoulder and catches my eye.

And mouths a quiet, grateful: Thank you.

I nod.

Then fade back into the trees.

Not to vanish.

Just to watch.

To protect.

To teach , when needed.

Because I’m not just bark and rune anymore.

I’m root and branch.

Old magic, yes.

But now, new growth.

I sense her before I see her.

Clara stands just beyond the ring, half-shadowed by a curtain of hanging moss. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t interrupt.

She just watches .

Her gaze tracks me as I help the girl toward safety, as I say nothing and still say everything .

And when our eyes meet across the distance, I see it, that blooming look in her chest.

Pride.

It spreads across her face like sunlight through trees.

And this time, I don’t look away.

I let her see all of me—thorn, root, shadow, light.

Because maybe I’ve never been her hero.

But I’ve become someone she believes in .

And that’s enough to keep growing.

I never thought I’d teach.

But now I do.

Three mornings a week, just past sunbreak, I meet a group of apprentices at the southeast clearing, near the moss bed that hums with soft, residual ley energy. It's become a classroom of sorts—open air, roots for benches, and trees for walls.

Today, five of them sit cross-legged in a loose half-circle.

Their eyes are wide.

Their notepads already smudged.

One boy has dirt under every fingernail and one girl’s braid keeps unraveling every time she gets excited. I like them. They’re curious without being careless. Respectful, but not afraid.

That matters.

I kneel in the center of the ring and draw a line in the soil with the tip of my finger. The line glows faintly green before fading.

“That,” I say, “is a breathline ward. First technique I ever learned.”

Hazel, perched nearby under a spell-slicked tree, perks up. “Did you learn it before or after trees were invented?”

I ignore her.

The campers snicker.

But then silence settles again as I press my hand to the dirt and whisper the trigger phrase—not in modern speech, but in the Grove’s tongue. The soil stirs. Roots rise and twist, weaving into a simple spiral before flattening out like they were never disturbed.

“You don’t force the Grove,” I tell them. “You ask.”

One girl raises her hand timidly. “But how does it know the difference?”

“Because intent is part of the magic,” I say. “The Grove listens to emotion. Purpose. Not just words.”

I pass around a chunk of old wardstone—softened with age, still pulsing if you listen close. They do. They hold it gently. One kid presses it to his cheek like he’s trying to hear a heartbeat.

“Today,” I say, standing, “you’ll each create a basic perimeter ward using only what you find here. No charms. No crafted tools.”

A murmur passes through them.

“Just Grove-taught will and earth-fed magic,” I finish.

They scatter.

I stay in the center, watching.

Guiding.

Correcting posture.

Helping them shift their spellwork from stiff gestures to fluid ones—ones that flow like wind through vine, not fire through steel.

I even smile.

Twice.

Clara catches me the second time—she’s passing on the ridge path with a bundle of sapling markers in her arms. She pauses just long enough to grin down at me, eyes sparkling.

“Don’t look so happy,” she teases. “They might start trusting you.”

“Too late,” I mutter, but I’m still smiling.

One of the younger campers finally gets their ward to ripple—the lines glowing faintly, forming a circle that pulses like a heartbeat.

He stares down at it in wonder.

“It’s listening,” he breathes.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “It is.”

And maybe, so am I.