Blossom Honeycomb's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Blossom stood frozen on the ridge path, listening to the scraping below. She'd thought she was choosing between saving the cottage and protecting the scattered, but the threat had already made that choice for her. It knew she would come. The bird's message hadn't been a warning—it had been an invitation. She looked down at the claw-marked log beside the path, then back toward the stream where the nestkeeper and the wounded bird waited. She could still turn around. Let the twelve in the cottage face what they'd chosen by refusing to leave. But her feet moved forward instead. Not toward the cottage, but around it, tracing a wide arc through the thickest brush where the thorned vines grew dense and wild. If the threat expected her to come straight down the path, she'd come from the side. She pushed through the barrier of twisted vines, thorns catching at her sleeves and scratching her arms. The cottage came into view below: pale stone walls, bright flowers still blooming around the wooden door, and circling it completely, a wall of living thorns that hadn't been there two days ago. The vines had grown overnight, sealing the cottage inside a prison of branches and barbs. No one was getting in. No one was getting out. Blossom crouched at the edge of the vine wall and pressed her ear to a gap between the thorns. Inside, she heard voices—low, frightened, but alive. Twelve creatures still breathing. The threat hadn't killed them yet because it was waiting for something bigger. Waiting for her. She pulled a golden banner rod from her pack and wedged it into the thickest part of the vine barrier, then snapped it sideways with all her weight. The wood cracked and the vines shifted, thorns scraping against stone. A gap opened, barely wide enough for something small to slip through. She leaned close and called through the opening. "South side. One at a time. Go to the stream." She didn't wait to see if they listened. She turned and ran back up the ridge path, boots loud on stone, making as much noise as she could. The scraping sound below stopped. Then it started again, faster now, moving toward her instead of the cottage. She'd drawn it away, but only for as long as it took to catch her. The twelve would have minutes, maybe less, to break through the gap and scatter. She'd given them a chance, but she'd also made herself the new target. The center of the Glen was lost. The promise she'd made to hold it was broken. But the creatures would live, and that was the only kind of protection left that she could still deliver.