The forest was breathing.
Not in the way trees sway or leaves rustle, but in the way something ancient inhales your presence and exhales your doubt. Ivy felt it in her bones—the rhythm of the moss beneath her boots, the way the light bent around Tieran's silver-streaked hair, the hush that followed Thimble's footsteps like a warning.
They were close.
Again.
Thimble's ears twitched as he hopped ahead, his bare feet barely disturbing the underbrush. "This way," he chirped, voice bright with certainty. "I can feel it. The grief well's pulse is strongest here."
Ivy followed, her fingers brushing the bark of trees that shimmered faintly with sigils—some familiar, some forgotten. Tieran walked beside her, his movements precise, protective, his eyes scanning every shadow.
The path narrowed, winding between trees that leaned inward like gossiping elders. The air grew cooler, heavier. Ivy's seal pulsed against her chest—not painfully, but insistently, like a thread tugging her toward something half-remembered.
They reached a clearing.
The moss was silver. The light fractured. The trees formed a half-circle, their trunks etched with grief sigils that pulsed in rhythm with Ivy's heartbeat.
Thimble spun in a circle, arms wide. "This is it! This is the place!"
Ivy stepped forward, her breath catching. Tieran reached for her hand, grounding her.
She knelt, pressed her palm to the moss.
The seal sang.
The grief well was here.
She could feel it.
But then—
The trees shifted.
Not violently. Not loudly.
Just… subtly.
Like turning a page.
The half-circle broke. The sigils faded. The moss dulled.
The clearing was just a clearing again.
Ivy sat back, stunned.
Tieran's jaw clenched. "It moved."
Thimble frowned, ears drooping. "It was here. I swear."
They didn't speak for a while.
Just walked.
The forest grew darker, the canopy thickening until the sun was a memory. Ivy's boots sank into damp soil, her fingers trailing through vines that pulsed with old magic. Tieran moved like a shadow beside her, his breath steady but tight.
Then he saw them.
Sigils.
Etched into the bark of a tree older than the court itself. They spiraled upward, glowing faintly.
"This way," he said, voice low.
They followed the trail of sigils—tree to tree, each one brighter than the last. The air grew colder. The wind stilled. Even Thimble stopped humming.
They reached a hollow.
The ground pulsed beneath their feet, like a heartbeat buried in soil.
Ivy knelt again, her fingers trembling.
The seal responded—warm, steady, close.
She cast a light thread.
It shimmered.
The grief well was near.
She could feel it.
But then—
A gust of wind.
A flicker of shadow.
The hollow folded into itself, like a memory denied.
Gone.
Ivy's breath hitched.
Tieran punched the nearest tree—not hard, but enough to feel something.
Thimble sat on a root, ears limp. "It's dodging us."
They tried again.
Thimble insisted they follow the scent of embervine. "Grief wells love embervine," he said, hopping ahead.
The scent led them to a grove of twisted vines and glowing mushrooms. Ivy cast a small light spell. The mushrooms pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. Tieran touched the vines. They curled around his fingers, warm and familiar.
They stepped forward—
And the ground gave way.
They fell.
Not far. But hard.
Into a pit lined with slick roots and old bones.
Tieran twisted mid-air, catching Ivy, shielding her. Thimble landed in a heap, ears tangled in vines.
They scrambled out, bruised, breathless, shaken.
Ivy's hands were scraped. Tieran's shoulder ached. Thimble muttered apologies between hiccups.
"I swear it was here," he said, voice small.
Ivy didn't answer.
She just stared at the vines, now limp and silent.
They tried silence.
No casting. No talking. Just walking.
Letting the forest guide them.
They followed the wind. The way the leaves turned. The way the light bent.
They reached a glade where the trees formed a perfect circle. The air was thick with memory. Ivy felt her mother's voice in the breeze. Tieran felt Orie's strength in the soil.
They stepped forward—
And the glade vanished.
Like it had never been.
Ivy collapsed beneath a tree, her breath ragged.
Tieran sat beside her, silent.
Thimble curled into a ball, ears over his eyes.
"I don't get it," Ivy whispered. "We're doing everything right."
"No," Tieran said. "We're doing everything clever. But grief isn't clever. It's raw."
Thimble peeked out. "You're close. I can feel it. The forest's pulse is changing."
Ivy stared at the trees.
They weren't just shifting.
They were responding.
To her. To Tieran. To the bond.
She reached for Tieran's hand.
He took it.
Their seal pulsed—soft, steady, stitched with memory.
"We're not just trying to find it," Ivy said. "We're trying to earn it."
Tieran nodded.
"We're trying to prove we're ready to face what it shows."
The forest stirred.
The wind shifted.
And somewhere, just beyond the next bend—
The grief well moved again.
The forest had grown quiet again.
Not the kind of quiet that comes with peace— but the kind that waits.
The kind that listens.
Ivy sat cross-legged on a patch of moss that pulsed faintly beneath her. Her boots were damp, her fingers stained with casting dust and crushed leaves. Tieran leaned against a tree nearby, arms folded, his silver-streaked hair catching the filtered light like a warning.
Thimble was perched on a root, chewing on a sprig of something that looked suspiciously like memory mint.
"I think we're cursed," Ivy muttered.
"You're dramatic," Tieran replied.
"I'm correct," she shot back. "We've tried everything. Maps. sigils. Feelings. Silence. The grief walls keep dodging us like we're contagious."
Thimble's ears twitched.
He swallowed the mint and sat up straighter.
"You know," he said, voice suddenly older, "there was once a girl who found the grief walls. Not by chasing. Not by casting. But by confessing."
Ivy blinked. "Confessing what?"
Thimble's eyes gleamed. "Her truth. Her ridiculous, embarrassing, deeply inconvenient truth."
Tieran raised an eyebrow. "You're making this up."
Thimble grinned. "I never make things up. I just remember them creatively."
He hopped down from the root and began pacing, his voice lilting like a bedtime story told by moonlight.
"Her name was Lira. She was a threadweaver from the Hollow Court. Brilliant. Brave. Absolutely terrible at expressing emotion. She tried everything—sigils, sacrifices, even singing to the trees. Nothing worked."
Ivy leaned in, intrigued despite herself.
"One day," Thimble continued, "she tripped over a grief vine and landed face-first in a puddle. She was soaked, humiliated, and furious. And she snapped. She started yelling at the forest. Told it everything—how she hated being the chosen one, how she missed her sister, how she once kissed a boy and then ran away because she panicked and pretended it was a dare."
Tieran snorted.
"And then," Thimble said, voice softening, "the grief walls opened. Because she stopped trying to be worthy. She just… was."
Silence.
The forest pulsed.
Ivy stared at the moss.
Tieran stared at her.
Thimble sat back down, smug.
"So," he said, "maybe you two need to stop being mysterious and start being messy."
Ivy groaned. "You want us to confess?"
Thimble nodded. "Your bond is stitched with secrets. The walls want truth. Not cleverness."
Tieran sighed. "Fine. Ivy, you go first."
Ivy's eyes widened. "Why me?"
"Because you're the one who talks to books and cries over soup," Tieran said.
"I do not cry over soup!"
"You cried when I made ginger rice." he said flatly.
Ivy's mouth dropped open. "That was a spiritual experience!"
Tieran tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You sobbed into the bowl and whispered, 'I can taste my childhood.'"
Thimble choked on a leaf.
"I was moved," Ivy hissed, pacing in tight circles. "It was nostalgic! It tasted like memory and comfort and—"
"—and you made everyone at the table uncomfortable," Tieran finished, voice like frost
Ivy stopped mid-step, pointing a finger at him. "You're impossible."
"And you're dramatic," he replied, not unkindly. Just… surgically.
Thimble rolled onto his back, ears twitching with delight. "This is delicious. Keep going. The forest loves chaos."
Ivy turned to Tieran, eyes blazing. "You want chaos? Fine. I once tried to cast a silence thread and accidentally made my shoes scream every time I stepped."
Tieran blinked.
Then, slowly, his lips curled into something that might've been a smirk—if it weren't so sharp.
"That was you?" he said. "I thought the Attic was haunted. I spent two hours interrogating a broom."
"I panicked and threw them out the window!" Ivy admitted, arms flailing again.
Tieran raised an eyebrow. "You threw a magical item out of a third-story window because it was loud."
"I was emotionally unstable!"
"You're still emotionally unstable."
Thimble clapped his hands. "Yes! More trauma! More sass!"
Ivy groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "This is humiliating."
Tieran stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His seal pulsed faintly, but his face remained unreadable.
"You think this is humiliating?" he said. "I once tried to spar blindfolded to impress the court. I punched a tapestry. It fell on Elian.he still has the scar."
Ivy gasped. "You punched a tapestry?"
"I was seven. Overconfident. And apparently allergic to dignity."
Thimble snorted. "You two are a disaster. I love it."
Thimble snorted. "You two are a disaster. I love it."
Then, with the flair of someone settling in for a drama he's seen a hundred times but never gets tired of, he pulled out a bunch of carrots from his satchel. They were oddly shaped—some twisted like question marks, others glowing faintly at the tips.
He bit into one with a loud crunch, ears twitching in delight.
Ivy blinked at him. "Are you seriously snacking right now?"
Thimble gestured at the mossy clearing like it was a stage. "You're giving me tension, banter, unresolved feelings—this is premium entertainment. I'm just waiting for the kiss or the emotional breakdown. Or both."
Tieran rolled his eyes and turned away, arms folded, jaw tight.
Ivy sat down hard on a patch of moss, her boots scuffed and damp, her fingers curled into her sleeves. The seal pulsed faintly against her chest, but the grief walls hadn't appeared. Again.
They had laughed. They had confessed ridiculous stories. They had mocked each other.
And still— nothing.
The forest remained still. Watching. Waiting.
Ivy looked around, frustration blooming in her chest.
"Why didn't it work?" she whispered. "We did everything. We were honest. We were messy. We were—"
"Performing," Tieran said, voice low.
She turned to him.
"What?"
He didn't look at her. Just stared at the trees, his silver-streaked hair catching the filtered light like a blade.
"We were performing," he repeated. "Telling stories. Laughing. But not feeling."
Thimble nodded solemnly, chewing slowly. "The grief walls don't open for comedy. They open for truth. The kind that hurts."
Ivy's breath caught.
She looked down at her hands.
Her fingers were trembling.
Thimble hopped closer, crouching beside her.
"You've stitched your seal with memory, Ivy. But you haven't stitched it with feeling. Not the deep kind. Not the kind that makes your heart ache and your voice shake."
She swallowed hard.
Tieran turned, watching her now.
His expression unreadable.
But his seal pulsed—faintly, steadily.
"I don't know how," Ivy whispered. "I don't know how to say it without sounding stupid."
Thimble grinned. "Then say it stupid. Say it messy. Say it like you're tripping over your own heart."
Ivy looked at Tieran.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just watched.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her throat tightened.
Her seal pulsed—wild, chaotic, alive.
"I…" she began, voice barely audible. "I have a crush."
Thimble leaned in, eyes wide.
Tieran's breath hitched.
"I had a crush," Ivy corrected quickly. "For a long time. And it's stupid. And inconvenient. And I didn't say anything because I thought he didn't feel anything. Because he was sealed. Because he was you."
Silence.
The forest held its breath.
Tieran stepped forward.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His boots pressed into the moss with quiet weight.
"Ivy," he said, voice low. "I felt it."
She looked up, startled.
"I felt your confession through the bond," he said. "It was loud. Messy. Honest."
Her breath caught.
Her seal pulsed—silver and gold, stitched together.
"I felt you," Tieran said. "Even when I didn't want to."
Thimble sniffled. "I'm not crying. I'm just allergic to romance."
The forest stirred.
The moss brightened.
And somewhere, just beyond the veil of trees—
The grief walls began to pulse.
The forest was holding its breath.
The moss beneath Ivy's boots shimmered faintly, like a heartbeat buried in soil. The trees leaned in, silent and listening. The air was thick with memory—cool, damp, threaded with the scent of crushed leaves and something older. Something watching.
They had laughed. They had confessed ridiculous stories. They had mocked each other.
And for a moment, the grief walls had stirred—just a flicker, a shimmer in the distance.
But they hadn't appeared.
Not fully.
Not yet.
Ivy stood still, her fingers curled into her sleeves, her heart thudding against the seal. She could feel the forest reacting—like it was waiting for something more. Something deeper.
Tieran was quiet beside her, arms folded, his silver-streaked hair catching the filtered light like a blade. His jaw was tight. His breath steady. But Ivy could feel it through the bond—his pulse, his tension, the way his emotions pressed against the stitching of his seal like waves against a dam.
Thimble was perched on a root, chewing slowly on a carrot that glowed faintly at the tip.
He didn't speak.
He didn't tease.
He just watched.
Ivy turned to Tieran.
Her voice was soft. "It reacted. But it didn't open."
Tieran nodded once. "It wants more."
She swallowed hard. "I don't know what else to give."
Tieran looked at her then.
Really looked.
And something shifted in his eyes.
Not warmth. Not softness.
But resolve.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his boots pressing into the moss with quiet weight. His seal pulsed—low, steady, like a heartbeat buried in snow.
"Ivy," he said, voice low and sharp. "Me too."
She blinked. "What?"
"I've had a crush on you," he said. "Before my emotions were sealed. Before I knew what it meant."
Her breath caught.
Her heart fluttered.
He felt it.
Through the bond.
"I used to watch you," Tieran continued, voice steady. "Not in a creepy way. Just… quietly. From the shadows. You were always loud. Messy. Alive. And I was stitched into silence. But somewhere in that silence, I fell for you."
Ivy's eyes shimmered.
Her fingers trembled.
Her seal pulsed—wild, chaotic, true.
"But now," Tieran said, stepping closer, "I'm stitched. Poisoned. Sealed. I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to feel it without breaking."
Ivy reached for his hand.
He let her.
Their fingers touched—soft, tentative, electric.
"I don't need you to break," she whispered. "I just need you to feel."
Their seals pulsed together.
Silver and gold.
Threaded with memory. Stitched with truth.
Thimble sniffled. "I'm not crying. I'm just emotionally compromised."
The forest stirred.
The moss brightened.
The trees leaned back.
And in front of them—
The grief walls appeared.
Tall. Glowing. Etched with memory.
They pulsed with light—soft, steady, stitched from sorrow and love.
Ivy and Tieran stood together.
Not as heirs.
Not as rebels.
But as threads.
Bound.
And ready.
There are places in the forest that do not open for footsteps. They open for feeling. For truth whispered through trembling lips. For hearts stitched with memory and ache.
The grief walls did not appear when they chased. Not when they cast. Not when they laughed.
They appeared when Ivy and Tieran stopped hiding. When they let the bond speak. When they let themselves be seen.