They listen.
And theybelievehim.
I stand by the garden archway, hands still curled tight in my skirt fabric, heart blooming too fast to control.
Because this?
This isn’t just integration.
It’s belonging.
It’s Thorn becoming more than protector.
More than myth.
It’s him—plant-skinned, rune-marked, andsmiling—becomingrealto people who once would’ve run from him.
And every part of me wants to run to him.
Just tobewith him.
Because he’s not alone anymore.
And neither am I.
Just as the last of the questions fizzle into giggles and wide-eyed stares, one small camper—Lina, barely seven, with a face full of freckles and grass stains on both knees—steps forward.
She’s holding something behind her back.
Thorn watches her with the stillness he’s known for, but his smile doesn’t waver.
“I made this for you,” she says, suddenly shy, and brings out a crown woven from daisy stems and clover, laced with the tiniest sprigs of lavender.
It’s crooked.
Imperfect.
Beautiful.
Thorn lowers to one knee again, and Lina reaches up, placing the crown gently atop his head—right over the carved barkline that traces through his curls.
“You’re the Grove King,” she declares solemnly.
The kids erupt into cheers.
Hazel whoops. Julie’s wiping her eyes again. Even Callie chuckles from behind the snack table.
And Thorn?
He wears it.
No protest.
No bashful shrug.
Just stands, tall and regal, daisy crown perched between moss and rune, vines blooming down his shoulders like he wasmeantfor it.
Because he was.
