I should’ve left the glade.
Faded into the roots. Let her mourn. Let her move on.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stay at the edge of the Grove, veiled in the oldest wards I know, watching her.
She’s back the next morning. Eyes red. Hands shaking. But there’s no hesitation in her steps.
She spreads the journal open across her lap, lips moving as she reads her father’s notes—cross-referencing old seed combinations, flipping between pages like she’s decoding the sacred tongue.
Then she pulls out a satchel. Herbs. Runestones. Charms.
She’sworking.
For the Grove.
Forme.
The vines nearest her still don’t respond—not fully. But they lean. They listen. And she speaks to them like they might still believe.
LikeImight still hear.
And watching her there, mud on her knees, hair tangled, notebook pages pinned down by river stones—I realize something hard and sharp and aching:
She hasn’t given up.
I feel something move deep in the soil, something I haven’t felt in a long time.
A whisper.
Aquestion.
Maybe… I haven’t lost her yet.
CHAPTER 19
CLARA
The sun’s not up yet when I walk back to the Grove.
I don’t wait for light anymore.
It’s not that I’m braver now, just… resolved. There’s a difference. Fear still hums in my chest like a second heartbeat, but it’s wrapped in something stronger.
Determination.
The Grove is so quiet, it feels like holding your breath underwater.
But I keep walking.
All the way to the sacred tree.
The bark doesn’t pulse. The roots don’t reach.
Still, I kneel.
And I dig.
