Page 4

THORN

T he Grove warns me the moment she steps over the line.

But I’ve already been watching her for an hour.

She works in silence, save for the occasional murmur to a basil plant or a half-hearted hum under her breath.

Her hands are careful. She cradles roots like they're glass. It’s not magic—not the kind that sings through air or warps the land.

But there’s something in her rhythm that feels older than that. Truer.

She squats next to the mint bed, cheeks flushed from the sun, sweat shining along her collarbone. When she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with a dirt-smudged hand, I feel the Grove shift.

The vines near her lean forward slightly.

I frown.

The Grove doesn’t lean .

It listens. It judges. Sometimes it accepts.

But this feels like a reaching.

She laughs softly at a tomato plant that refuses to climb its trellis. Then she glances over her shoulder—toward the Grove—and her expression changes.

Like she knows someone’s watching.

She doesn’t see me.

But she feels it.

I draw deeper into the shadow of a high-limbed willow, arms crossed over my chest, breath slow. I tell myself I’m waiting for her to cross the line again. That I’m standing guard. Nothing more.

But even I don’t believe that.

I should turn away.

Instead, I watch.

And when she steps toward the vine again—the one she touched days ago—I do not stop her.

A tremor rolls beneath the roots, subtle as a sigh. The vines coil tighter, the elder branches creak like old joints waking from sleep. She's near again.

The one called Clara.

She doesn't even try to hide it anymore. Each day, closer. First her fingers. Then her voice. Then her scent—lemons, soil, and something like memory.

And now, her footfall presses soft against the outer ward stones like an apology before a crime.

I watch from the high boughs of the ward-tree, bark folded over my arms like armor, eyes burning low beneath the mossed hood of my face.

She’s humming again.

Like she thinks the trees are just trees.

I drop to the ground in silence.

Not even the wind dares interrupt.

She kneels before the silver-veined vine. The same one she touched days ago. It curls toward her like a cat seeking sun. She reaches for it again—slow, hesitant.

The moment her fingers brush the leaf, the ward flares.

Light pulses blue-white. The tree groans. The air stiffens.

And then she’s frozen, hand still outstretched, eyes wide with shock.

I step out from behind the bark-wall.

The shadows peel back around me. Vines retract. Earth splits beneath my bare feet with every step. She sees me.

She gasps.

But she doesn’t scream.

She stares.

Like I’m not something to fear—but something to understand .

My voice is low, ground from stone and root. “You were warned.”

“I—I’m sorry,” she breathes, stumbling back onto her heels, both palms raised like I’m about to strike.

I don’t move closer. Just stand there. Let her look.

She sees the vines in my skin. The runes glowing faintly on my collarbones. The bark along my jaw, cracked and dark as old oak. My eyes. They always look brighter to humans.

But she doesn’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt anything,” she says. Her voice is soft, but steady.

I tilt my head. “Intent does not prevent consequence.”

She looks down at the vine. It's pulled back slightly, but not in fear.

“I thought it wanted me to,” she mumbles. “It moved yesterday. Toward me. Like it was curious.”

“The Grove does not move without reason.”

“Then what was the reason?”

She looks at me when she says it. Not defiantly. Not challenging. Just… searching.

I should turn her away.

I should scare her enough she never crosses that line again.

But I don’t.

The tree behind me shudders. It knows.

I lower my voice, rough and quiet. “You’re not meant to be here.”

“I didn’t know where the line was.”

“That is not the same as being blind to it.”

She frowns, more at herself than me.

I’ve dealt with humans before. Campers too loud, too careless. Staff poking where they shouldn’t. Even Julie kept her distance after the Rift Summer. They see me and run.

Clara does not.

She straightens slowly. Brushing dirt from her knees, like standing up will let her hold her ground better.

“I’m not trying to take anything from the Grove,” she says, voice wobbling now but holding. “I just… I work better when things are alive. And the Grove feels alive.”

“It is.”

That stops her.

“It lives,” I say, stepping closer. “It listens. And it remembers.”

Clara swallows. Her breath hitches once. Then she nods.

“I’ll stay back from now on,” she whispers. “I promise.”

She’s trembling, but not from fear.

Something else.

Guilt?

Maybe.

But it’s also wonder.

I watch her for a long moment. The wind circles her softly, like the Grove doesn’t want her to leave just yet.

Neither do I.

But I say nothing more.

Just step back into the shade.

She watches me disappear.

And then she leaves too.

But the vine doesn’t uncurl.

It still points toward where she stood.

I stay long after she’s gone.

The Grove is quiet again, but the silence doesn’t soothe me.

I crouch beside the vine and run my fingers over the spot she touched. The imprint of her still lingers, faint but warm, like sun beneath soil.

She didn’t plead. Didn’t posture. Didn’t demand to know more.

She apologized.

She listened .

That’s what haunts me most.

Humans are noisy things—always chasing, taking, proving. Warping the world into exactly what they want without any care for any other creature’s desires. But Clara… she carries her wanting like a secret she’s not sure she deserves to speak aloud.

And the Grove wants her.

That’s what I don’t understand.

Why would it reach for someone who doesn’t even know she’s being chosen?