One boy has dirt under every fingernail and one girl’s braid keeps unraveling every time she gets excited. I like them. They’re curious without being careless. Respectful, but not afraid.
That matters.
I kneel in the center of the ring and draw a line in the soil with the tip of my finger. The line glows faintly green before fading.
“That,” I say, “is a breathline ward. First technique I ever learned.”
Hazel, perched nearby under a spell-slicked tree, perks up. “Did you learn it before or after trees were invented?”
I ignore her.
The campers snicker.
But then silence settles again as I press my hand to the dirt and whisper the trigger phrase—not in modern speech, but in the Grove’s tongue. The soil stirs. Roots rise and twist, weaving into a simple spiral before flattening out like they were never disturbed.
“You don’tforcethe Grove,” I tell them. “You ask.”
One girl raises her hand timidly. “But how does it know the difference?”
“Because intent is part of the magic,” I say. “The Grove listens to emotion. Purpose. Not just words.”
I pass around a chunk of old wardstone—softened with age, still pulsing if you listen close. They do. They hold it gently. One kid presses it to his cheek like he’s trying to hear a heartbeat.
“Today,” I say, standing, “you’ll each create a basic perimeter ward using only what you find here. No charms. No crafted tools.”
A murmur passes through them.
“Just Grove-taught will and earth-fed magic,” I finish.
They scatter.
I stay in the center, watching.
Guiding.
Correcting posture.
Helping them shift their spellwork from stiff gestures to fluid ones—ones that flow like wind through vine, not fire through steel.
I even smile.
Twice.
Clara catches me the second time—she’s passing on the ridge path with a bundle of sapling markers in her arms. She pauses just long enough to grin down at me, eyes sparkling.
“Don’t look so happy,” she teases. “They might start trusting you.”
“Too late,” I mutter, but I’m still smiling.
One of the younger campers finally gets their ward to ripple—the lines glowing faintly, forming a circle that pulses like a heartbeat.
He stares down at it in wonder.
“It’s listening,” he breathes.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “It is.”
And maybe, so am I.
