I’ve seen it before. Human hearts stretched too close to the wild—they crack. They don’t survive magic’s weight. They weren’t built to carry it.
Clara is not meant for shadow and rot. She is sunlight and rhythm and warmth. And even if some foolish part of her thinks she wants this—me—she doesn’t know what it would cost.
I won’t be the one who teaches her that.
So I stay beneath the Grove.
Out of reach.
Out of sight.
Even when I feel her near the stone line, even when I sense her soft voice calling into the trees.
I do not answer.
Because loving her would be a beautiful cruelty.
And I have hurt enough things in this life.
The Grove misses her.
It doesn’t speak in words or weeping—but in stillness.
The roots go slack beneath my feet. Vines that once stretched eagerly toward the path hang dull, their leaves turning in on themselves. The moss grows brittle at the edges, greying. Even the light filtering through the canopy has changed—less dappled, more distant.
I feel it all.
Like a body missing breath.
And I know why.
It’s because she’s not laughing.
She’s not humming those clumsy songs while planting marigolds or reading about root systems in that soft, reverent voice. She’s not brushing her fingers over the bark like it might shatter or bloom depending on her mood.
She hasn’t returned.
Because I’ve made her think she’s unwelcome.
The Grove doesn't understand the choice I've made.
It only knowsabsence.
And it grieves her like rain that never came.
I kneel beside the sacred tree, hand pressed to its fading pulse, and whisper without meaning to, “She was the first thing this place wanted in decades.”
The bark doesn't answer.
But the pain in the soil is answer enough.
CHAPTER 15
CLARA
It’s been four days.
Four days since Thorn disappeared.
