The air smells like my father’s greenhouse—damp, sweet, full of memory and possibility.
And the tree?
Itglows.
Faint, golden light bleeding from the bark lines, the runes flickering awake like ancient eyes blinking open.
I can’t breathe.
I press both palms into the dirt, staring, my heart tripping over itself.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean—” I stammer.
The Grove doesn’t answer in words.
It answers in beauty.
Raw. Wild. Uncontained.
This isn’t the tidy, measured magic in textbooks.
This is grief turned sacred.
Love made luminous.
The Grove isalive.
And it remembers us both.
Above me, birds burst into the sky like fireworks—wings bright with reflected light. Their cries echo through the clearing, not startled, but rejoicing.
The air stirs with more than wind.
Tiny insects shimmer through sunbeams, golden like dust motes from another world. A swirl of petals lifts from the ground, dancing between the vines as if stirred by invisible fingers.
Pixies.
Not many.
Just a few, blinking into existence like they’ve been waiting for permission to return. They flit between blossoms, trailing laughter like chimes, their wings iridescent and gossamer-thin.
I watch it all in stunned silence.
This isn’t a sanctuary anymore.
It’ssacred.
The Grove has spoken.
And I believe it more than I ever have.
I hear footsteps crunching the underbrush before I see him.
Eliorin Vask, Magical Environmental Board lapdog, strolling through the Grove like it’s a municipal park. His charm glasses gleam, and his survey wand hums low at his side.
I step forward, blocking his path.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, breathless. “It’s—look.”
