Page 27

CLARA

I can smell honeysuckle before I even reach the clearing.

It’s clinging to the wind, sweet and thick, braided with the scent of campfire smoke and summer leaves still sticky from morning dew.

The Festival of Bloom only started five years ago, but this time it feels like something ancient. Something rooted.

Like the Grove’s been waiting all this time for a reason to celebrate.

Julie’s strung moss lanterns between the birches, and Hazel’s enchanted them to flicker like little floating suns.

They drift gently in the breeze, casting warm halos on everything they pass.

Tables line the trail with flower-petal cookies, jars of compost tea, and wildfruit tarts that are already half-eaten by the time I get there.

People are everywhere .

Campers. Council members. Alumni. A cluster of dryads from the northern ridge. Even Eliorin Vask, in an open-collar robe and sandals, pretending not to enjoy himself.

And me?

I’m standing at the edge of it all, heart hammering like it wants to claw its way out of my chest.

Because today… they’re unveiling the new botanical wing.

My wing.

I almost bolt.

Thorn’s the one who finds me.

Of course he is.

He steps out of the treeline like he was carved from the dusk itself—runed skin warm in the lantern light, eyes steady, grounded.

“You’re hiding,” he says.

“I’m pausing ,” I mutter, smoothing my skirt with both hands. “Strategically.”

He raises a brow. “From what?”

I glance toward the stone archway where Councilwoman Juna is already calling for attention. “From the moment where I have to get up there and say words with my mouth .”

“You’re good with words,” he says, stepping closer.

“I’m good with plants.”

His mouth quirks just slightly. “Same thing.”

I let out a shaky laugh, then swallow it down. “I’m scared.”

He doesn’t try to tell me not to be.

He just takes my hand.

Warm. Steady. Rooted.

“You’ve grown something worth seeing,” he says quietly. “Let them see it.”

So I go.

My fingers don’t stop trembling, but I go.

Juna announces the dedication with a kind of ceremonial joy that makes my cheeks burn. People clap. Hazel whistles. Julie wipes her eyes with a leaf-shaped napkin.

And I walk up the path beneath a woven arch of blooming vine and sacred bark and step into the new wing.

It’s open-air—walls of living lattice, floor paved in stone and softened by moss, ceilings strung with star-silk vines that Thorn helped coax into form. Rows of native flora are rooted in sun-spelled planters, each one marked with carved, hand-painted sigils.

And at the center, a sculpture.

Not of me.

But of my father’s journal.

Carved in stone.

Vines curling around it like a crown.

I forget to speak.

I forget to breathe.

Until someone nudges me gently from behind.

Julie.

I take a deep breath.

And I say, “This place isn’t just for growing things. It’s for remembering why we grow them.”

More silence.

Then a round of soft, genuine applause.

And Thorn, watching from the shade with something like pride flickering across his features.

After the ribbon’s cut and the applause fades, the festival spills out in full bloom.

Laughter rises like pollen on the wind.

Pixies dart between floating lanterns, children chase flower-charms that Hazel enchanted to giggle when caught, and someone’s playing a reed flute near the reflecting pool.

And then I see him.

Thorn.

Not standing at the edge or watching from the trees.

Walking.

Right through the center of the crowd.

Vines spiral slowly around his forearms, blooming lazily with soft white bellflowers that chime every time someone looks up and notices him.

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t shrink.

His shoulders are straight. His chin is lifted.

And when one of the younger campers—Wren, the boy who always lags behind during herb walks—points and says, “That’s him! That’s the Grove guy!” the other kids swarm like a delighted, awe-struck tide.

Thorn doesn’t retreat.

He kneels.

So he’s not towering. So he’s with them.

“Is it true you talk to trees?” one girl asks, clutching a jar of blossom jam.

“I listen more than I speak,” he says, voice rumbling low but kind.

“What’s your favorite plant?” Wren blurts.

Thorn considers it.

“Ghostroot,” he says. “Grows in shadow, blooms in silence.”

“Like you!” another camper shouts.

Thorn actually smiles.

A real one. Small. Quiet. But there.

The vines at his shoulders curl tighter, affectionately, like they’re responding to his mood. One camper reaches out hesitantly to touch the nearest one, fingers hovering.

Thorn lifts his arm, offering the bloom.

“They like curiosity,” he says. “Not fear.”

The child strokes the vine with a reverence that makes my throat tighten.

“Do you sleep in the dirt?” Hazel yells from across the tables.

Thorn huffs. “Only when it’s comfortable.”

“Can you grow stuff just by thinking about it?” someone else asks.

He doesn’t answer with words.

He closes his eyes.

Breathes in.

And at his feet, a tiny bud pushes up through the soil.

Unfurls.

Becomes a pale, delicate flower with petals like old parchment.

The children gasp.

One girl clutches her hands over her heart. “That’s so cool.”

Thorn lowers his hand gently, letting the bloom rest against the ground.

“Magic’s not a trick,” he says. “It’s a conversation.”

They nod.

They listen.

And they believe him.

I stand by the garden archway, hands still curled tight in my skirt fabric, heart blooming too fast to control.

Because this?

This isn’t just integration.

It’s belonging.

It’s Thorn becoming more than protector.

More than myth.

It’s him—plant-skinned, rune-marked, and smiling —becoming real to people who once would’ve run from him.

And every part of me wants to run to him.

Just to be with him.

Because he’s not alone anymore.

And neither am I.

Just as the last of the questions fizzle into giggles and wide-eyed stares, one small camper—Lina, barely seven, with a face full of freckles and grass stains on both knees—steps forward.

She’s holding something behind her back.

Thorn watches her with the stillness he’s known for, but his smile doesn’t waver.

“I made this for you,” she says, suddenly shy, and brings out a crown woven from daisy stems and clover, laced with the tiniest sprigs of lavender.

It’s crooked.

Imperfect.

Beautiful.

Thorn lowers to one knee again, and Lina reaches up, placing the crown gently atop his head—right over the carved barkline that traces through his curls.

“You’re the Grove King,” she declares solemnly.

The kids erupt into cheers.

Hazel whoops. Julie’s wiping her eyes again. Even Callie chuckles from behind the snack table.

And Thorn?

He wears it.

No protest.

No bashful shrug.

Just stands, tall and regal, daisy crown perched between moss and rune, vines blooming down his shoulders like he was meant for it.

Because he was.

He looks over at me then.

And the look in his eyes, steady.

Open.

Home.

It wraps around my heart like a second root system.

And I know this moment will stay with me longer than any spell.