Clover willow's Arc

Chapter 8 of 20

The winged buck folded his six wings and lowered his glowing antlers. Clover held the little star-speckled creature close to her chest. Below the grove, someone stood at her empty cottage, asking for her. If she stayed here, they might climb the slope. They might find the guardian's tree. They might find all of it. She looked at the guardian's tight face and made her choice. "I'll go down," she said. "Before they come up." The guardian caught her wrist. "You don't have to face this alone." But his eyes flicked to the wren still waiting for his care. The grove needed him. Clover set the small creature in the fox-house and stepped away. "Watch the door," she told it softly. Then she started down the slope. Frost Whitepaw dropped from a low branch and walked beside her. His white fur caught the morning light with its blue sheen. "You'll want a witness," he said, sharp green eyes on the trees below. "Someone below wants something. People who climb this far always do." A broad figure stood at the cottage door. His body was dark, weathered wood. Green veins glowed faintly beneath the bark, and tiny gold lights flickered in his branchy hair. This was Thorne Wildroot. Clover had never seen him. His amber eyes found her, and one corner of his mouth curled up. "There you are," Thorne said. "The grove's been talking. A human girl who heals fawns. Who moved into the fox-house." Clover's stomach dropped. "Who told you that?" "The forest talks to me. Roots carry news." Thorne knocked one wooden knuckle against her cottage wall. "You left this place empty. Below, they've noticed. A carpenter came by, twice, asking after you. Soon others will follow the path you wore in the slope." His smirk faded. "I came to warn you, not to threaten. But warnings cost." Frost stepped forward, tail low. "Name it." Thorne looked at Clover. "I'll hide your trail. I'll turn the path back to bramble so no one below finds the grove. In return, you owe me a favor. One I'll name when I choose." Clover thought of the guardian, of the grove, of everything a stranger's climb could ruin. She had crossed the line between two lives. She could not let the world below drag it into the open. "Done," she said. "Hide the trail." Thorne pressed his palm to the ground. Roots stirred. The worn path up the slope closed over with thorns and moss until no trail showed at all. "It's sealed," he said. "They'll think you left for good." He turned into the trees, gold lights winking out. "I'll come for my favor." Frost watched him go. "He always collects," he murmured. Clover stared at the sealed slope. The grove was safe. No one below would climb to the guardian now. But she had traded that safety for a debt with no shape and no price. She climbed back toward the fox-house, owing a stranger something she could not yet name.