“Damn,” she mutters. “They’re really going for it.”
I nod. “I need something. Something official. Sacred site designation, lost blessing mark,anythingI can wave under Vask’s enchanted nose.”
Hazel taps her chin, mug balanced dangerously on one knee. “Most of those protections would’ve been buried in the original spellwork. Druidic stuff’s deep and layered.”
“I don’t need everything,” I whisper. “Justenough.”
She studies me for a long moment, then sets her mug down with a decisivethunk.
“Okay.”
My heart leaps. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ll help you dig through the Grove’s old sigils and runes, maybe trigger a residual. But—” she holds up one finger, sharp as a nail—“you owe me.”
I hesitate. “What kind of favor?”
Hazel grins, all teeth and mystery. “That’s for future me to decide. Could be small. Could be world-changing. That okay with you?”
I should say no.
But I don’t.
“Deal,” I whisper.
“Good girl,” she says, standing. “Grab your boots and that cute nervous energy of yours. We’re going root hunting.”
We catch the late-morning bus into town.
Hazel sits cross-legged on the vinyl seat beside me, chewing a sour candy and flipping through a leather-bound spell journal like it’s the Sunday comics.
“I’m just saying,” she mutters between chews, “if ancient druids wanted stufffound, they could’ve at least used decent ink. No one respects preservation spells anymore.”
I give her a look. “You’re thirteen.”
“Exactly. I’malreadybetter at this.”
The Pinemere Historical Archive is half-forgotten and three-quarters mildew, tucked between the bakery and a nail salon that only seems open on Wednesdays. The clerk at the front desk doesn’t even look up when we come in.
Hazel winks at me. “I’ve got us two hours before she realizes I’m not legally supposed to be here. Let’s go.”
We head straight for the back stacks—past the tourist maps and faded war registries—until we find the old land ledgers. Most are brittle and hand-penned, curled at the corners like dried leaves.
“Here.” Hazel pulls out a folio marked FOREST SANCTUM—UNINCORPORATED ZONES.
I flip it open.
And there it is.
Drawn in fine, careful ink: a towering tree with four runes carved into its base. Beneath it, sketched faintly in smudged charcoal, a shape I know by heart—spiraling roots that echo the rhythm of Thorn’s hands when he weaves magic through the Grove.
Hazel whistles. “That’s a ward source. A big one.”
I run my fingers over the page, barely breathing.
“The seal’s still intact,” she mutters. “But dormant. It’s gotta behim.”
“Itishim,” I whisper. “It’s Thorn’s tree. His origin.”
