Page 77 of Summertime Hexy
Soft. Subtle. Like the Grove itself is waking up from a centuries-long nap.
The air stills for a beat, and then a breeze stirs—not cold, not harsh, but warm and full of life, like summer exhaling. It kisses my neck and I feel the hair on my arms rise, not in fear—but inrecognition.
Something’sshifting.
I pull away from Derek’s chest slowly, heart still hammering, and glance around.
The circle’s still glowing, but softer now—like firelight instead of lightning. The dirt beneath our feet pulses with faint gold threads, the remnants of the ritual still humming in the earth’s veins.
And then, I see it.
The grass.
Right beneath us, just outside the scorched edges of the spell’s epicenter, tiny green shoots begin to unfurl. Not fast. Not dramatic. But steady. Certain.
I blink.
And theykeep going.
A slow wave of color ripples out from where we stand. Green first—lush, dewy, velvet-soft. Then specks of lavender, rose, and indigo rise up in bursts. Wildflowers bloom from soil that was dry and broken just moments before. Vines creep along tree roots like living lace, twining over fallen logs and climbing toward light that wasn’t there seconds ago.
The entire forest begins tosing.
Not literally, though the wind rustles through the branches in a way that makes me think itcould.It’s more of a feeling, like everything is vibrating on the same frequency. Like the Grove is whispering,Yes. Yes. Yes.
Beside me, Derek’s eyes track the growth, his hand still firm in mine.
“I’ve never seen it do this,” he murmurs.
“Neither have I,” Thorn says quietly, appearing at the circle like a shadow cast by something holy. His eyes aren’t wide with fear—they’re soft. Reverent. “You didn’t just seal it, Hazel. You fed it. You gave ityourself.”
I swallow. Hard.
Because he’s not wrong.
The Grove isn’t just intact now—it’salive.
Flowers I’ve never seen before open on thin stalks: blue petals shaped like wings, glowing from the inside like lanterns. Moss thickens in silver spirals over the rocks. Even the air has changed—it smells like rain and sugar and something heartbreakinglynew.
Milo stumbles into the clearing with his arms full of whatever junk he was sent to collect from the wards, then stops short and gawks.
“Okay, either I hit my head, or someone fed this place unicorn tears and sang it lullabies.”
“You’re not dreaming,” I say, dazed.
Because itfeelslike one.
One tree, the ancient sentinel at the center of the Grove, lets out agroan—deep and old and full of meaning. Its bark splits down the middle, not violently, but like a door opening. Inside, not darkness, but a soft golden glow pulses—slow and even, like a heartbeat.
“Is that—?” I start.
“A ley bloom,” Thorn breathes. “The Grove is blooming from the inside out.”
My legs give out again. Derek catches me without a word.
We sit in it, just watching.
Vines twist around the stones, knotting the ritual’s anchors in place like they were always meant to be there. The candles relight with green fire, flickering in unison. Even the birds return—soft chirps from above, tentative at first, then louder, happier.
