Senna POV

The petals beneath my feet are damp with morning dew, sticky against my skin as I run. I’m not supposed to be this deep into Hollowlight. Not before dawn. Not alone.

Mavri is going to kill me if she finds out. But I had to. Her cough was worse last night, sharp and dry, and she’d asked for star-sweet lilies with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The night lilies only bloom while the stars are still watching. And the only place they bloom? Near the heart of the Grove. Right in the middle of Bramble wolf territory.

Brilliant decision-making, truly.

Bramble wolves—thorn-tangled fur, eyes like broken glass. They’re fae, technically. Just the kind that bite first and maybe ask questions once you’re bleeding. At night, they’re beasts: all shadow and snarling teeth. But come sunrise, they shift—fae-blooded and bitter, cloaked in menace and the kind of silence that pricks at your spine. Not welcome in the Courts. Not welcome anywhere.

They’re outsiders—like me.

Except they bite harder.

I’m just a half-trained earth fae with moss on my boots and a knack for getting in trouble.

I didn’t mean to wake one. Just a snapped twig. A rustle of breath. The low scrape of claws against bark.

I ran.

Now I’m scratched, soaked, and clutching a basket like a charm ward, twigs tangled in my hair and a prayer snagged between my teeth. My wings ache. My lungs burn. But I’m alive.

For now.

I duck low behind the gnarled trunk of a fallen tree, heart hammering like it’s trying to warn the entire forest. The glow from my basket pulses gently, and I throw my shawl over it to smother the light.

Somewhere behind me, branches creak. A low growl threads through the underbrush, too guttural to be wind.

I hold my breath.

Another step. Closer.

The wolves don’t need eyes to see. They can smell fear. Hear the thrum of blood too fast beneath skin. If I move, I’m dead. If I breathe too hard, I’m dinner.

I press my back against the moss-slick bark and close my eyes, counting each heartbeat like a warding charm.

One.

Two.

Three—

A twig snaps to the left.

I freeze, every muscle pulled tight. My breath stills in my throat. The wolf’s attention shifts—ears twitching, head cocked. A rabbit, maybe. Or a trick of the Grove.

Please be a rabbit.

The Grove has always had my back like that. Hiding me in mist. Confusing footfalls. Luring attention away when I needed it most.

I wait.

Ten heartbeats. Twenty.

The silence swells, thick and pressing, louder than sound.

Then, careful as a root finding water, I move.

I lower myself into the underbrush, thorns biting at my arms, a web catching on my lashes. I bite back a whimper as my knee slips in a patch of cold muck. Bramble coils around my ankle like it wants to keep me. I tug free, breath hitching.

The earth is damp beneath me—spongy, uneven, layered with moss and decay. I drag myself forward on elbows and thighs, the basket still clutched to my chest like it might protect me. It doesn’t. A stray twig cracks beneath my weight. I pause again, heart thudding in my ears, praying the wolves don’t hear.

Faint green fungi dot the forest floor ahead, lighting a narrow path with a soft, pulsing glow. I follow it. One elbow, one breath at a time.

I don’t know how long I crawl. My body aches. My wings burn. My hair is tangled with leaves and gods-know-what else. I can feel the sting along my side, the throb of a fresh bruise blooming on my hip.

But still—I keep going. Until the dark begins to lift.

A pale seam of light breaks through the canopy. Not full sunrise, not yet, but enough. Enough to tell me I’m close. That I’ve crossed the invisible threshold where their territory ends and mine begins.

Only then—only then—do I risk standing.

My legs shake beneath me, slick with mud. I’m soaked through, trembling, one shoe missing. My dress is in tatters. The lilies in my basket are battered, glowing faintly through the mess of leaves and stems.

But I’m alive.

Barely.

I love Hollowlight Grove, don’t get me wrong. But it doesn’t always love you back.

It’s beautiful in the way old magic always is—untouched, unbending, soft-edged but sharp-hearted. The trees lean in when they like you. They lean away when they don’t. The mosswitches say the Grove remembers every footstep it’s ever held.

And some it never forgives.

The path beneath my feet shifts as I walk. I adjust the basket of lilies on my hip. They’re still glowing faintly, thank the stars. Mavri won’t care if they’re bruised.

She’s not really a fae. Not technically. Mosswitches are older than the Courts, older than most maps. Half-root, half-riddle, and somehow more grandmother than menace. She doesn’t leave the cottage much anymore—not since the bramble wolves tore up her garden path last spring. But her eyes are sharp as flint and her voice can still crack stone.

Which is often. But never at me.

She found me when I was five—alone at the edge of the Grove, sobbing into a tree stump, wings too small and shaking with frost. Just a half-starved earth fae, barely strong enough to coax a flower bud to bloom.

Most fae would’ve stepped around me like I was broken glass. Mavri just squinted and said, "Well, you’re a strange-looking mushroom."

And took me home.

The Grove didn’t reject me, and neither did she. That’s more than most can say.

I slow only when the trees begin to thin. Welcome to Wispwick. The little hollow tucked in the cradled arms of Hollowlight Grove. The place I call home.

I duck beneath the flowering arch into Wispwick and roll my shoulders, brushing damp curls off my neck. My hair’s a wild mess—tangled from brambles and damp with dew, a curtain of moon-pale strands that grows faster than weeds after rain. Mavri says it’s a side effect of my magic, a quirk of Earth Fae blood. I say it’s a nuisance. Especially when it catches every burr and thorn on the way home.

It hangs straight down my back now, already slipping from the knot I tied it into hours ago. Dirt streaks my arms, and the hem of my dress is torn, snagged on underbrush and still carrying a few stray twigs like souvenirs. My wings—small, fragile things, more shimmer than strength—ache from being held tight too long, tucked against me like a secret.

Hardly the picture of a proper Grove girl.

The air smells of damp moss and crushed leaves. A soft wind lifts the edge of my sleeve, and I pause, tilting my face to the sky. The sun is just beginning to rise, brushing the tips of the trees in gold.

Beyond Hollowlight Grove, past the tree line and the veil of old magic, the rest of the world begins to stir.

Out there, war has raged for the past five hundred years between the Fae Courts and the Bloodborn. Kingdoms have risen and fallen. The skies have burned with spells and smoke.

But Hollowlight has stayed untouched. The mosswitches refuse to choose sides, claiming neutrality through ancient pacts. No monarch’s banner flies here. No armies march beneath these trees.

And me? I’m an Earth Fae—barely. My magic is weak, barely enough to coax moss to bloom or stones to sing. That’s why I was left behind. Abandoned like a weed in the wrong garden. But Mavri took me in. And the Grove let me stay.

Wispwick became my home. Here, the magic blooms openly, curling around every thatched roof and flower-lit window. Homes perch on mushroom caps, sway gently from willow limbs, or nestle into the knotted roots of trees. Some glow with amber light from within; others chime with tiny bells whenever a breeze passes.

Rope-bridges lace between branches, strung with drying herbs and swaying lanterns. Gardens hang from trellises shaped like spiderwebs, their leaves dewy and humming with enchantment. A tiny post owl flutters overhead, a scroll tied to one leg and disappears into the open window of a cottage shaped like a teapot.

It’s whimsical, yes—but not in the way of stories. It’s lived-in. Loved. A kind of wild harmony that only comes from knowing every creature, every root, every moonrise.

Outsiders wouldn’t understand it. That’s why they don’t come here. And why the Grove doesn’t let them.

But we do live in peace.

A peace you can feel in your bones.

I pass beneath a flowering arch woven from starvine and willow fronds. Just ahead, tucked at the edge of the glade like it grew there on accident, is Mavri’s cottage.

Crooked and clever-looking, with a roof blanketed in moss and shelves carved into the bark of its outer walls. A cluster of wind-chimes made from bone, spoon, and glass tinkle in the gentle breeze. One of the windows flickers with warm yellow light. Another has a cracked pane that Mavri insists she’ll fix when she "feels like it."

I follow the stone path—our stone path—each slab etched with protective wards and stubbornly sprouting clover. As I reach the gate, it creaks open without me touching it.

Typical.

The scent of honeyroot and wild thyme floats from the chimney, followed by the soft clink of a spoon in a mug. I ease the door open, its hinges whispering a familiar song, and step inside.

Mavri’s crouched over the hearth, stirring a pot with one hand and waving a ladle at the kettle with the other. She doesn’t look up.

"Close the door. You’re letting the dawn in."

I shut it quietly. "You knew I was out."

"Of course I did. The Grove told me. It always does. You cannot hide from me my Little Mushroom.”

She straightens with a grunt, and that’s when I take her in—wild grey hair twisted into a braid thick with dried herbs and trinkets, skin the colour of old bark, and eyes bright as moonlight on water. She’s small, hunched, but carries the weight of ancient things in the slope of her shoulders. A patchwork apron hangs from her front, pockets bulging with roots, feathers, and something still squirming.

"And I know you brought back half a basket of lilies, a new bruise on your knee, and guilt thick enough to slice."

I hover in the doorway, basket clutched awkwardly. "They were blooming. I couldn’t—"

"You couldn’t help yourself," she finishes, eyes raking over me.

I change tactics. "They’re still glowing."

She huffs, leaning on her cane – more branch than stick, still sprouting tiny leaves – and takes the basket inspecting the lilies. Her fingers are weathered but gentle.

“You should be asleep,” I mumble, edging past her. “And now you’ve got the lilies, you can finally get rid of that cough.”

Her snort is half a laugh, half a warning. “I stirred like a cat in a thorn bush soon as you crossed the ward line. You think I sleep when my wards twitch and whisper?”

I wince.

"You’re lucky the Grove still likes you. Bramble wolves do not forgive easily."

I wince. "I was careful."

Mavri arches a brow.

“You tripped over your own foot three nights ago and scared off a clutch of bark foxes.”

“…That was a tactical manoeuvre.”

She hums, unamused. “Tactical idiocy, more like.”

Mavri pads toward the hearth, muttering under her breath as she unpacks the lilies. Our cottage smells of peat smoke and lavender, warm and familiar. Dried herbs dangle from the rafters like sleeping bats. A pot simmers gently on the stove, and somewhere in the corner, a broom shuffles itself back into place as if pretending it wasn’t eavesdropping.

She looks over her shoulder. “Next time, ask me before risking your wings for night blooms.”

Mavri has always been more protective of my wings than I am. Maybe because I’ve never really learned how to use them. No one around here knows how to use them or how to teach me. They’re small, delicate things—half-grown, half-understood. More ornamental than useful. But to her, they’re sacred. Proof of something I’m still trying to believe in.

“Next time, don’t cough like the Grove’s trying to evict you,” I counter.

For a heartbeat, her eyes soften. “Cheeky mushroom.”

“Old root.”

And for the first time all night, I finally let myself breathe.