Rain drilled through the canopy in endless threads, a steady hiss that drowned the edges of sound. Aurelian lay on his side in the mud, ribs aching with every breath, the taste of iron and wet bark thick on his tongue. Fayte pressed against his sternum, a warmth clinging to a world gone cold. Above, wings carved shadows through the storm. Fayte circled, feathers rattling when wind slammed the treetops, each pass a promise the sky had not forgotten him.
He tried to rise. His palms slipped on wet leaves. Symbols flared across his vision, jagged and bright, the same runes that had burned him beside the fox's gem. They crawled and broke, crawled and broke, always just a breath away from meaning. He blinked hard, tears and rain stinging his eyes.
It would be easier to stay down. Let the mud cover him. Let the storm finish the work. The thought frightened him more than claws. He dug his fingers deeper into the soil and pushed until his arms shook.
A figure stood at the edge of the clearing. Not a beast. Not another nightmare dripping ink. A woman.
Sandaled feet sank into the mud without care. A robe clung to her frame, bright cloth mapped with rain. Black hair, streaked with silver, hung heavy to her shoulders. Lines marked her face in a way that spoke of winters endured and work done, not weakness. The forest itself seemed to ease around her, as if roots had drawn a steadier breath.
Fayte dropped low in a warning sweep, talons raking soil. The woman did not flinch. She inclined her head once, acknowledging danger but not bowing to it. After a long beat, the ardentis' wings eased.
Her gaze found Aurelian. The lantern offered a bloom of light that he ached to reach. He crawled toward her. His chest rattled, breath cutting sharp. The sound belonged to hospitals… nights when coughing blurred the world. He had sworn he'd left that weakness behind. The woman stepped closer and knelt. Mud caked her knees, unnoticed. Her palm pressed against his sternum. Warmth sank into him like the glow of a hearth.
She spoke. The sound struck him like a bell in a hollow hall. He could not follow the words, but the runes in his vision spasmed and shifted. After an instant they settled in a tumble. His skull throbbed. He groaned and clutched his head, as though his hands could hold his thoughts in place.
Her thumb brushed mud from his cheek. She spoke again, voice low, steady. He caught fragments. Not a song. Different, not empty. The meaning slid away, but the rhythm eased the knot in his chest.
"Doc…" His voice cracked, the word drowned by rain.
Branches split. Boots slapped mud. Two figures burst from the green behind her.
A face, as serene as the storm, walked toward him. Her cloak plastered to her shoulders. The other, hair wet and wild, and her full cheeks beaming with warmth and kindness. They approached him together, one on each side, and the world steadied for a blink.
"Aurelian," the full-cheeked maiden breathed. She hooked her arm under his shoulder with a strength that startled him.
He did not understand her other soft words, but his name was clear. The other woman, as sure as a willow, slid under his other side, bracing him with practiced certainty. A huntress who saw his weight no differently than what she hunted. He wasn't sure how he knew these details. A whirlwind sang the jumble of understanding to him.
He heard them for a heartbeat—the way he once heard his attendants in the kitchen at three in the morning, whispering over bills and bad news, trying to keep him safe. The runes surged, bleaching their words into light, and he sagged between them with a sound he barely recognized as his own.
The older woman's voice cut through, firm as stone. Together they hauled him upright. His knees buckled, but they carried him anyway, stubborn as saplings in snow. Fayte growled—ready to protect, to save.
The matron knelt, murmured soft words, and extended her arms. The small avian looked from her to Aurelian. He nodded. Even without understanding the language, the meaning was clear—they offered salvation. Fayte leapt into her embrace. Mud streaked her gown, but she only drew him closer before returning to Aurelian. Fayte sniffed, satisfied.
The woman turned into the trees. Branches leaned aside for her shoulders. They followed.
The forest changed. Trunks widened into pillars that dwarfed houses. Roots braided over streams into bridges, worn smooth by bare feet. Homes rounded from living wood offered doorways that had never known a saw. Glyph lights glowed faint on hanging vines, each like a captured star. Voices braided into a hum — not song, not speech, but a harmony that pressed against the skin.
The hum faltered when they stepped beneath the first arch.
A woman stringing vines froze, the coil slack in her hands. Another, carrying a bowl of water, halted mid-step, eyes narrowing. An elder paused her weaving, gathered a blanket of fleece, and hurried toward him.
The women supporting him shifted so the elder could wrap him. The fabric felt like sheepskin, heavy and warm the moment it touched his skin.
"Thank you…" He wasn't sure she understood, but she smiled and brushed mud from his cheek.
Whispers rippled through the air. The runes in Aurelian's vision shifted, aligned—and meaning slammed into him.
"Soulless."
"Abyssal."
"Silence-born."
"Keep him apart."
The words cut deeper than claws. He understood them. He wished he hadn't. His tongue shaped nothing; his throat locked. Still he knew. Shame flared hot enough to burn through the rain.
His guardian's grip tightened until his ribs ached.
The matron stopped. She turned to the crowd, rain and mud streaking her robe, silver threading her hair like wire.
"How dare you," she said.
The Grove stilled.
"I am Keeper of this Grove. Do you call me blind? Do you call the Great Tree false? I have watched his bulb grow and pulse for decades—the firstborn of the Great Tree in a hundred years!"
Fayte sat beside him. She slid one hand under his jaw and brushed the wet hair from his brow with the other. For a long, soft moment there was only her touch and the whisper of rain on leaves.
Light gathered on his skin until it shaped itself into a crescent of moonlight laid over braided roots—the color of moonlit sap. It pulsed once.
Gasps and a sob broke the clearing; a whispered prayer rose, equal parts gratitude and fear.
"Behold the Starbriar," the Keeper said. Her gaze cut through them, hard as flint struck for fire. "Anyone who spits that filth again will answer to me."
No one answered. The glyph lights dimmed as though even they feared to intrude.
She lowered her hand, pressed her palm to Aurelian's shoulder, and her voice softened. "And until he can raise his own, he is under my shield."
A full warm cheek pressed against his hair. "She will not let them hurt you. Nor will we, brother."
They moved deeper. Roots formed a causeway thick as masts. Pools shone with glyph light, each ripple answering with a pulse. Elders watched with faces that tried and failed to hide opinion. The gathered crossed their arms, whispered prayers, or stared, unwilling to look away.
The hum did not return. Silence bent around him, following like a second shadow. He hated it without knowing why.
His legs remembered their work, tremor by tremor. Every step brought another surge of runes across his sight, washing the world clean of meaning. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached and tried to breathe through the quake.
At last they came to a hollow where a root arched high, then dipped to drink from the earth. A waterfall spilled from a cleft along its curve, silver and thin, braided with pale plant-light. The air was cooler, touched with the scent of mint.
The Keeper knelt as if stone itself had welcomed her. She set her hand on Aurelian's shoulder.
"Rest, child. The Tree has not abandoned you. It gave you to me."
Unknown to him, the words were still a jumble, but more firmly held meaning. He knew the shape, and the indentations made a place in him where breath did not hurt. He nodded before his mind caught up, his body answering first.
They eased him against the root. Bark gave beneath his spine as though it had grown to fit him. They examined his skin quickly for cuts and bruises, then covered him quickly. Fayte's beak nudged the edge of the blanket, and slipped inside, as quiet as a cat.
The women at the edge of the hollow did not leave. They stood fast, as if bound to the sight of him. Some folded arms to hide trembling. Some mouthed prayers until their lips reddened. Others leaned forward, caught between awe and suspicion.
The Keeper turned her head. Her eyes swept over them like a blade. "No more. He is under my hand."
A few turned away. Few. Enough that the air loosened.
"I'm Velma," the full-figured girl whispered. "This is Xira." She wiped the rain from his brow with her sleeve. Her mouth shaped his name, over and over, as though it could glue him back together. Xira's eyes tracked the edges of the crowd with cold calculation. Fayte watched everything as he peered at them beneath the blanket.
The runes slowed. Not gone, not kind, but less cruel. They felt like a storm beginning to remember the rhythm of a shore.
"I'm Eden," the matron said. She hummed low, a sound he half-thought was only the Tree answering itself. He fought sleep, then let it take him, sliding under like a stone dropped into a pool.
The storm played across the canopy. Glyph lights dimmed to a doze. Fayte kept vigil, a fragment of weather made flesh. His sisters stood guard, one tending his every breath, the other already building a list of what it would take to keep him alive.
The Grove held its silence. Not welcome, or rejection. A waiting.
The Starbriar slept while the world decided what to do with him.