Page 73 of Summertime Hexy
And we begin.
The moment Hazel’s blade slices across her palm, the Grove responds.
It exhales.
Not metaphorically. Not magically.
Literally.
A wind pushes outward from the center of the circle like breath from the earth’s lungs. The candles gutter, the trees sway, and the symbols etched into the soil flare a hot, silver white. Magic shifts—raw and hungry, drawn to the blood staining Hazel’s hand as she presses it to the center glyph.
“I offer the truth,” she whispers.
Her voice shakes.
“I am afraid. Every day. I pretend I’m not because pretending is easier than being left behind. I’ve been running for so long, I forgot what it felt like to stay. But I’m here. And I choose this. I choose tostay.”
The Grove rumbles.
My heart stutters.
Her blood pulses brighter against the glyph.
Then the blade is passed.
To me.
It’s heavy in my hand—cool hilt, warm edge. It hums with something ancient. Something that remembers rituals before language had bones.
I press the tip to my palm.
Drag it down.
Pain sharpens my focus.
I let the blood fall.
“I offer vulnerability,” I say, low.
The wind stills.
The silence leans in.
“I have seen love rot. I have buried it in earth and watched it decay in my hands. I’ve let myself believe I was better alone, because alone meant no one else had to bleed.”
Hazel’s head lifts.
Her eyes meet mine.
“But she made me want again. Made mefeel.And I’d rather be broken beside her than whole without her.”
The ground shudders.
The glyph under my blood lights up like wildfire licking through frost.
Thorn’s voice joins in, low and grounding, his hands splayed against the dirt as he intones the stabilizing chant. Milo’s voice wraps around his like ivy—fierce, young,hopeful.
Hazel grips my free hand with her own, our blood mixing in the circle’s heart.
