He gasps, then freezes as I step from the trees.
Good.
Let him be afraid.
The barrier hums dangerously. If he pushes further, it’ll collapse. I plant my palm in the moss and whisper the Grove’s binding word—Silthaloren—and the light seals shut with a quiet snap.
The boy yelps and scuttles backward, dropping the wand.
“I didn’t mean to—” he stammers.
“You nearly broke the ward.”
“I got lost,” he blurts. “I thought it was a shortcut back to the cabins—I didn’t know it was... alive.”
I crouch low, looming over him like the thing he thought was just campfire legend. “This Grove does not suffer intrusions.”
He nods rapidly, shoulders hunched. “I won’t—I swear, I didn’t mean?—”
“I believe you,” I say.
He stops shaking.
Then I lean closer.
“But if you return, even by mistake, you will not walk back out on your own legs. Do you understand me?”
His face goes pale.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Good.”
I rise. “Now go.”
He scrambles away, boots catching on underbrush, eyes never leaving me as he stumbles toward the trail.
Once he’s gone, I place both palms against the ward line and hum the stabilizing rhythm. The trees groan. The magic binds tighter.
Only when the air stills do I let myself exhale.
The Grove is safe again.
But I stay.
Not because of the boy.
Because of what this means.
The ward lines are weakening. Not from decay—but fromactivity.
Clara’s presence stirs the Grove. That’s the truth. Her joy brings bloom. Her breath carries resonance. She’s bringing life where there was stillness.
But life invites motion.
Motion draws attention.
And if that boy had been more reckless—if it hadn’t been a child, but a caster with greed in his mouth and flame in his fists…
