Page 25

HAZEL

T he moment Derek says it— I love you —the Grove shudders .

Not gently. Not sweetly.

It writhes .

Like the earth just inhaled our entire existence and now it’s not sure what to do with it.

Magic spins around us in a cyclone of color and sound. The sigils carved into the soil lift like glowing constellations, suspended mid-air. They orbit our circle in widening rings—some gold, some bleeding red, some so bright they sear my vision like lightning.

I feel the air pull tight, like we’re inside a heartbeat held too long.

The ley lines erupt.

They scream .

Power erupts from the ground like geysers—light crashing into sky, lighting up the trees from the inside out. Bark glows silver. Leaves shimmer like glass. The canopy becomes a dome of light, a living cathedral of magic breathing in sync with us.

The wind howls.

And so do I.

Not in pain or fear.

In freedom.

My hands rise without thinking. My blood, my magic, my self —it all surges up like a wave with no shore in sight.

“Hold the boundary!” Thorn shouts somewhere behind me.

“On it!” Milo yells, his voice cracking with strain.

Derek says nothing—but I feel him behind me, solid and steady, like the weight that grounds a storm just before it swallows the sky.

I step into the center of the circle.

Magic curls up around my boots like tendrils of smoke, then grabs me—lifts me three feet off the ground in a burst of raw force that would’ve terrified me a week ago.

Now?

I lean into it.

I open everything.

“Take it,” I whisper. “Take all of it.”

My hair lifts like flames. My veins hum. Every breath tastes like ozone and ash and possibility.

Symbols blaze across my skin—not tattoos, not burns. Just truth. Old spells and forgotten runes, curling over my arms, across my throat, down my ribs. I am the circle now.

The Grove sees me.

And I don’t flinch.

I offer my hands.

I offer my heart.

The air crackles, and I scream —half spell, half defiance—as I channel everything through me into the ground.

“HAZEL!” Milo shouts, but it’s distant now. Everything’s distant.

The Grove is inside me.

And it’s hungry.

Images flash through my mind like dreams ripped into daylight: the first witches, bleeding into stone. Monsters bound in bark. Love stories written in root systems. Sacrifices burned into the soil.

I am all of them.

And none of them.

I am chaos made useful.

I plant my feet—floating or not—and pour myself into the final glyph.

It accepts me.

The forest explodes in light.

The trees bow.

The wind dies.

And silence slams down like the lid of a coffin.

A heartbeat.

One beat.

Two.

Three.

The circle lowers me gently back to the ground.

I fall to my knees.

Still breathing.

Still here.

I look up.

The Grove is changed.

The trees glow faintly in the underlight of dusk. The stones sing a low, soft note. The rift is gone —sealed so cleanly there’s not even a scar in the air.

And in front of me?

Derek.

Eyes wide.

Face unreadable.

I stumble toward him.

He catches me.

And I break.

“I did it,” I sob into his coat.

“You did.”

“I didn’t lose control.”

“No,” he whispers into my hair. “You finally took it.”

It starts with a breath.

Soft. Subtle. Like the Grove itself is waking up from a centuries-long nap.

The air stills for a beat, and then a breeze stirs—not cold, not harsh, but warm and full of life, like summer exhaling. It kisses my neck and I feel the hair on my arms rise, not in fear—but in recognition .

Something’s shifting .

I pull away from Derek’s chest slowly, heart still hammering, and glance around.

The circle’s still glowing, but softer now—like firelight instead of lightning. The dirt beneath our feet pulses with faint gold threads, the remnants of the ritual still humming in the earth’s veins.

And then, I see it.

The grass.

Right beneath us, just outside the scorched edges of the spell’s epicenter, tiny green shoots begin to unfurl. Not fast. Not dramatic. But steady. Certain.

I blink.

And they keep going.

A slow wave of color ripples out from where we stand.

Green first—lush, dewy, velvet-soft. Then specks of lavender, rose, and indigo rise up in bursts.

Wildflowers bloom from soil that was dry and broken just moments before.

Vines creep along tree roots like living lace, twining over fallen logs and climbing toward light that wasn’t there seconds ago.

The entire forest begins to sing.

Not literally, though the wind rustles through the branches in a way that makes me think it could. It’s more of a feeling, like everything is vibrating on the same frequency. Like the Grove is whispering, Yes. Yes. Yes.

Beside me, Derek’s eyes track the growth, his hand still firm in mine.

“I’ve never seen it do this,” he murmurs.

“Neither have I,” Thorn says quietly, appearing at the circle like a shadow cast by something holy. His eyes aren’t wide with fear—they’re soft. Reverent. “You didn’t just seal it, Hazel. You fed it. You gave it yourself. ”

I swallow. Hard.

Because he’s not wrong.

The Grove isn’t just intact now—it’s alive.

Flowers I’ve never seen before open on thin stalks: blue petals shaped like wings, glowing from the inside like lanterns. Moss thickens in silver spirals over the rocks. Even the air has changed—it smells like rain and sugar and something heartbreakingly new .

Milo stumbles into the clearing with his arms full of whatever junk he was sent to collect from the wards, then stops short and gawks.

“Okay, either I hit my head, or someone fed this place unicorn tears and sang it lullabies.”

“You’re not dreaming,” I say, dazed.

Because it feels like one.

One tree, the ancient sentinel at the center of the Grove, lets out a groan —deep and old and full of meaning. Its bark splits down the middle, not violently, but like a door opening. Inside, not darkness, but a soft golden glow pulses—slow and even, like a heartbeat.

“Is that—?” I start.

“A ley bloom,” Thorn breathes. “The Grove is blooming from the inside out.”

My legs give out again. Derek catches me without a word.

We sit in it, just watching.

Vines twist around the stones, knotting the ritual’s anchors in place like they were always meant to be there. The candles relight with green fire, flickering in unison. Even the birds return—soft chirps from above, tentative at first, then louder, happier.

The Grove is celebrating.

Not just survival.

But becoming.

My magic isn’t wild anymore.

It’s home.