Callie looks over the girl’s shoulder and catches my eye.
And mouths a quiet, grateful:Thank you.
I nod.
Then fade back into the trees.
Not to vanish.
Just to watch.
To protect.
Toteach, when needed.
Because I’m not just bark and rune anymore.
I’m root and branch.
Old magic, yes.
But now,new growth.
I sense her before I see her.
Clara stands just beyond the ring, half-shadowed by a curtain of hanging moss. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t interrupt.
She justwatches.
Her gaze tracks me as I help the girl toward safety, as I say nothing and still sayeverything.
And when our eyes meet across the distance, I see it, that blooming look in her chest.
Pride.
It spreads across her face like sunlight through trees.
And this time, I don’t look away.
I let her see all of me—thorn, root, shadow, light.
Because maybe I’ve never been her hero.
But I’ve become someone shebelieves in.
And that’s enough to keep growing.
I never thought I’d teach.
But now I do.
Three mornings a week, just past sunbreak, I meet a group of apprentices at the southeast clearing, near the moss bed that hums with soft, residual ley energy. It's become a classroom of sorts—open air, roots for benches, and trees for walls.
Today, five of them sit cross-legged in a loose half-circle.
Their eyes are wide.
Their notepads already smudged.
