Page 87 of She Touched His Vine

“This is your first root-anchored perimeter,” I begin. “Basic wardwork starts with listening. If you don’t know the land’s shape, your spell will buckle.”

One boy—Finn—tilts his head. “What’s it mean to ‘listen’ to dirt?”

“Ask it what’s already there,” I answer. “You’re not plantingonland. You’re weavingwithit.”

He scribbles that down like it’s prophecy.

A girl to my left, Lina, raises her hand. “What if the soil’s already claimed?”

I nod approvingly. “Then you offer. With respect. With patience. If it still refuses, you walk away.”

They murmur among themselves—this idea that magic might haveboundariesboth baffles and excites them.

I press my hand flat to the moss, closing my eyes.

After a few beats, the ward pulses beneath my palm—soft green threads unraveling across the surface, forming a spiraling glyph.

I look up. “Now you.”

The kids lean in, hands shaking, cheeks flushed.

Some glyphs fizzle. Some spike too fast. One sparks and sings a quick, high-pitched whistle that startles everyone—except Hazel, who’s watching from a nearby tree and claps like it’s her favorite new symphony.

I correct stances. Adjust hand positions. Repeat trigger phrases softly, patiently.

And when the glyphs hold, and the roots glow, I say: “This is ward-tending. It’s not about walls. It’s about trust.”

A smaller boy, silent until now, raises his hand. “Do you ever miss being alone?”

I pause.

Then meet his eyes.

“No,” I say simply. “Because I was never meant to be alone. I just forgot.”

They nod like it’s something they understand in their bones.

And when the lesson ends, and they scatter to gather moss samples and wildseed, one of them lingers.

A girl with ink-stained fingertips.

She hands me a folded drawing.

It’s a sketch of the Grove. And me. And them.

All together.

I unfold it carefully.

And I smile.

Because maybe this is what legacy looks like.

As the kids begin to pack up their notes and stow away their charm-paper scrolls, Lillian—Torack’s daughter, all knobby knees and sharp eyes like her father—lingers behind.

She’s been quiet the whole lesson, sketching more than speaking, but now she turns to Clara, who’s just arrived with a basket of sunfruit and soil tags.

“Miss Clara?” she asks, tilting her head. “How’d you and Mr. Thorn meet?”

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