Page 8

THORN

S he comes again.

Even after hearing me—after standing in the breath of my voice and feeling the old weight of the Grove stir around her—she still comes.

And she’s not pretending nothing happened. I see it in the way her fingers shake when she scatters seed, in the way she pauses longer near the line of ward stones. But she doesn’t run. Doesn’t call for help.

She just… stays.

That’s enough to stir something even older than me.

The ward-tree’s pulse beats louder today, like its roots are reaching toward her footsteps. The ground beneath my feet tingles with something I haven’t felt in centuries.

Eagerness.

She kneels in the usual place, the hem of her pants damp with dew. Her voice is steadier this time when she speaks.

“I’m back. Hope that’s okay.”

It is.

But I don’t answer from shadow.

This time, I step out.

The moss parts for me. Leaves still. Air holds its breath.

She gasps when she sees me—fully, completely.

I watch her eyes trace the runes glowing faintly across my collarbone, the bark at my arms and jaw, the way my skin bends where vines pulse under the surface like veins.

But she doesn’t scream.

She stands, slowly, like every movement matters. “You…”

“I am Thorn,” I say, my voice like gravel softened by moss. “I was grown for this Grove.”

She takes another half step closer, then stops. “You were grown ?”

“By elven druids,” I say. “Centuries ago. To protect this land, not just with strength—but with presence .”

She blinks. “You’re part of it.”

I nod. “We are one.”

She folds her arms gently, thoughtful. “You said the Grove listens.”

“It does more than that.”

I turn slightly and stretch out my hand to the vine she tends. It rises in response, its leaves shifting toward the sound of her breath. The earth hums beneath us—deep, like a heart waking.

“This place reacts,” I say. “It feels. It remembers. It mirrors what is given to it.”

I walk toward the center glade, feeling her hesitate behind me, then follow.

As I step, flowers bloom in the soil beneath my feet—wild and blue, disappearing seconds later like echoes. Clara gasps.

“What is this?”

I kneel and place a palm against the soil. “Emotion. Memory. The Grove reflects what we feel. When you speak to it, when you work the soil… it answers.”

She kneels beside me, almost touching the earth. “So… when I come here…”

“You awaken it,” I say simply.

She bites her lip. “And that’s good?”

“It is rare,” I say. “And powerful. And not without risk.”

Her eyes search mine, blue and quiet. “But you let me stay.”

“I did.”

A long pause stretches between us.

“Why?” she asks, voice barely audible.

Because I wanted to. Because something in you calls to something in me. Because I have been stone and shadow for too long, and now the Grove won’t sleep when you’re near.

But all I say is, “You see what others do not.”

She lets that sit between us. Then smiles—small, shy, but real.

“I don’t want to break it,” she whispers.

“You won’t.”

She looks up, startled. “How do you know?”

I meet her gaze. “Because it chose you first.”

We stay there a while.

She asks questions, softly, like she’s afraid her voice might bruise the quiet. I answer what I can. The Grove responds more to feeling than logic, and she seems to understand that instinctively.

Without meaning to, she laughs.

A real laugh, bright and startled, bubbling up as she watches a root twitch and recoil when her elbow bumps it.

And the vines bloom.

All around us, petals unfurl in ripples, delicate and wild—white and violet and gold, tiny things that blink into existence in the breath of her joy. It’s not showy. Not dramatic.

Just… beautiful.

Clara covers her mouth, eyes wide. “Did I—did I do that?”

I nod. “The Grove likes your laugh.”

She looks dazed. “That’s insane.”

“It’s truth.”

She shifts onto her side and begins to hum absentmindedly, brushing her fingers across the moss without thinking.

And the trees murmur in reply.

Leaves shiver above us, low and resonant, the kind of sound that sinks into your bones and hushes everything you thought you needed to say. It isn’t language. It’s acknowledgment.

She goes still. “Was that?—?”

I nod again, slowly. “They heard you.”

Her mouth falls open, but no words come. Just breath.

I watch her.

And I wonder how something so alive could’ve stayed hidden from me for so long.

I start noticing the time.

The way the Grove shifts before she arrives.

The soil loosens.

The light bends softer.

The vines closest to the southern path stretch, as if reaching for her shadow before it even rounds the corner.

And I wait.

I tell myself it’s vigilance. I’m her guardian. I protect the ward lines. I observe patterns and monitor magical shifts. That’s what I was made for.

But that’s not the whole truth.

The truth is I start looking forward to her.

I count the seconds between her soft footfalls on the stone path. I tune the Grove’s pulse to her breathing. I watch her face for signs of sleep, strain, joy. I feel the way the trees lean when she passes, and the way the roots vibrate under her laughter like they crave more of it.

I know I shouldn’t.

She’s human.

Mortal.

And this bond wasn’t written in the old spells.

But it’s forming anyway.

Fast.

Every time she leaves, I feel the quiet grow louder. The Grove doesn’t just go still—it misses her. And so do I.

I press my palm against the ward tree and close my eyes.

This is not what I was grown for. This is not why I was created.

For the first time in my long, soil-born life…

I wonder what it would be like to be chosen back.