Lyonne Forest received them quietly.

The road narrowed almost at once, swallowed by moss and root until it became less a road than the memory of one. In the early afternoon, light slipped between the branches in pale threads. The air had changed as they left Lyonne d’ura behind: less salt, tar and fish; more sap, damp bark and old leaves softening into soil.

Thorn lowered his hood, rolled his black cloak and strapped it beneath his pack. Wind moved freely through his moss-green hair as he surveyed the trees.

For the first time since stepping off the Kestrel, the Ee’dornil seemed to breathe easily.

He moved ahead with unhurried certainty. Every so often, he touched one of the trees, closing his eyes and murmuring something neither Suraia nor Vasha understood. The forest did not answer in words, but leaves stirred around him as though they recognised the shape of his hand.

Vasha watched him openly. “Are you talking to them?” the Oakhai asked.

“In a manner,” Thorn answered.

“Do they talk back?” Vasha asked.

The large elf glanced at her. “In a manner.”

Vasha nodded gently, accepting the answer for now.

Suraia slowed beside an old stone marker, where rainwater had gathered in a shallow hollow and wild garlic spread in broad green patches. She crouched, pushing her curls behind one ear, and took only a few leaves from each plant. Enough for supper, but not enough to harm the patch.

A little farther along, the healer found healthy plantain and wrapped it separately for poultices, stings, bites and neglected cuts.

Thorn stopped a few paces ahead. His gaze travelled from the garlic to the plantain, then to the care with which Suraia kept them apart. He didn’t speak. He merely waited for her to finish.

They continued deeper into Lyonne Forest.

The trees thickened as Quintra moved further along her path. Roots knotted across the path, ferns crowded the undergrowth and the broken road sometimes vanished entirely beneath moss before reappearing as a line of ancient stones. Vasha moved more lightly here than she had in Calithor, her ears lifting at birdsong and her tail swaying as she listened to every rustle. Sometimes she slipped ahead, only to circle back without being asked.

The human woman stayed close, but she was not idle. Mint near a trickle of water joined the food bundle, and she wrapped several yarrow leaves with the plantain. Where Quintra’s light reached the forest floor, she found marigold and carefully saved it for salves rather than supper.

They paused beside a stream during the afternoon. Thorn drank first, crouching with one hand braced against a stone. Vasha followed, quick and unbothered, and splashed water over her face with a contented sigh.

Suraia knelt beside them. The current ran clear over dark pebbles. She cupped her hands and lifted the water towards her mouth, only for half of it to escape between her fingers and trickle down her wrists. The curly redhead frowned and tried again, leaning closer this time. Thorn noticed, though the slight movement at the corner of his mouth was the only sign.

They ate some of the bread and cheese Tiny Tim had given them. Thorn watched until the human woman took several more bites, while Vasha pretended not to notice and very obviously did.

Afterwards, they moved on beneath leaves and birdsong. The storm-bent trees felt watchful, neither hostile nor welcoming.

By late afternoon, Thorn slowed beside a small clearing sheltered by ferns and low brush. A silvered, half-rotted log lay along one edge, while moss and needles softened the ground. A small stream crossed along the edge of the clearing.

The Ee’dornil surveyed the surrounding trees before giving a single nod. “Here,” he said.

“Finally,” Vasha murmured, her ears perking with relief. Among the trees, she looked more like herself, as though some tightness left by the town had loosened.

Thorn set down his pack, his bark-brown skin and wild green hair clear in late Quintra’s slanting gold. Suraia glanced at him, then quickly looked away as colour warmed her cheeks.

The red-haired woman placed her own bag beside the fallen log and began unpacking. First came Tim’s vegetables: two carrots, an onion, a small turnip and a handful of wrinkled little potatoes. Then she laid out the cloth bundles of herbs gathered throughout the day.

Vasha watched her with a gentle smile. Thorn’s mouth moved slightly as well, although he turned away before it became anything so obvious.

The Oakhai wandered towards the clearing’s edge, bow in hand. “Small game?” she asked.

Thorn glanced towards his apprentice. “If you can find it.”

“If?” Vasha’s tail flicked. “Master Thornwing, you wound me.”

The large elf gave her a steady look.

Vasha grinned and disappeared into the undergrowth.

Thorn knelt and placed one broad hand against the forest floor, his fingers sinking through moss and needles until they found living soil. The air shifted.

Roots stirred beneath the earth. Shoots pushed through the leaf litter, while new branches rose and bent at the druid’s will. They twisted together, leaves unfurling over the frame until a living shelter stood within the clearing.

Suraia watched briefly before gathering dry twigs and bark from beneath the fallen log. She arranged the smallest pieces, then struck the flint from her alchemy kit. The third spark caught, and she breathed gently until the flame steadied.

By then, Thorn had coaxed moss into soft beds within the shelter and drawn a thick root from the ground in a half-circle near the fire. More moss spread across it like a blanket, forming a low bench.

Suraia filled her new cauldron at the stream, then sliced the carrots, turnip and onion. Thorn crushed the wild garlic with the flat of his knife before passing it to her. She saved the mint until later.

The human woman selected a clean, smooth stick for stirring, then tried to secure two longer branches over the fire as a stand for the cauldron. One slipped. She caught it before it struck the flames, hissing as the heat licked too close to her fingers.

A root rose beside the fire. It curved, thickened and hooked itself over the cauldron’s handle as though it had always intended to hold it there.

Suraia looked up. Thorn had turned away and was brushing soil from one hand as though he had done nothing worth noticing.

“Thank you,” the curly redhead said softly.

The stew began to simmer, quiet and steady.

Vasha returned before the light failed, stepping into the clearing with bright eyes and a small bird in one hand.

“Dinner,” the ebony-skinned woman announced, clearly pleased with herself.

Thorn accepted the bird with a practical nod, prepared it and set it over the fire upon a spit. As Suraia tended the cauldron, fat dripped and hissed and a rich smell filled the clearing.

When the bird had browned and the stew thickened, they ate. Thorn portioned the meat with a steady hand, giving Suraia a smaller share without drawing attention to it and Vasha a larger one.

The healer ate slowly as warmth spread through her, easing something that had remained tight since the docks. The simple stew tasted better than it had any right to.

Vasha swallowed her first mouthful and made an approving sound. “Delicious,” she declared.

Suraia smiled hesitantly at the praise.

Afterwards, the three sat around the fire. Something called beyond their small circle of light—short and sharp—then fell silent. Leaves shifted. The world listened.

Vasha leant against the moss-covered root with her tail curled around her side. Thorn sat on Suraia’s other side, relaxed but alert, as though some part of him would always remain on watch.

Suraia held her hands towards the flames. Her fingers were warm now, but her throat remained tight.

She had carried the same thought from Calithor, beneath Lyonne d’ura and into the forest. Thorn had stood under the ancient stone like a man meeting a ghost, then walked among the trees as though waiting for them to remember him.

Now that they were here, perhaps he would send her back to her people after all. She drew a breath. It snagged, but she forced herself to speak.

“Thorn?” the human woman asked.

He looked towards her and waited.

“I…” Suraia hated the wavering in her voice. “I suppose… you’ll be heading back home now that we’re… here.”

The words felt like something she had no right to ask.

The Ee’dornil didn’t answer immediately. Firelight travelled across his face and caught within the faint glow of his eyes.

“No,” Thorn answered at last.

Suraia blinked, and Vasha went still.

“I will not return to Eedrasil’s Rest. Not yet,” the large elf continued, lowering his gaze towards the flames. “I have been there too long.”

The quiet that followed was deep enough for the crackle of burning wood to fill it.

“I thought the other islands had their own keepers,” Thorn said. “Druids. Wardens. Those who listened when the land changed.” His hand shifted towards the earth, his palm hovering above the moss. “Eedrasil’s Rest was wounded. It needed a caretaker, so I stayed. It healed.”

Suraia listened without moving.

“But the sickness we saw on Meriquy was not a single wound,” the Ee’dornil continued. “The sea is wrong. The forests are restless. Even here, beneath old trees, I can feel places where the balance has thinned.”

Vasha’s ears angled forwards.

Thorn looked into the darkness between the trunks. “I was wrong to think my duty ended at one island.”

He spoke plainly, as though the words possessed enough weight without ornament.

“I will wander the Xaverion islands,” the druid said. “I will seek places that are sick. I will heal what I can and cleanse what must be cleansed.”

“And… my lessons?” Vasha asked.

Thorn turned towards his apprentice. “If you still want them.”

“I do,” the Oakhai answered too quickly for it to be anything but honest.

“You will listen,” Thorn told her.

“I listen beautifully,” Vasha claimed.

“You listen when it suits you,” the Ee’dornil replied.

The Oakhai’s grin returned, smaller and warmer than usual. “Still counts,” she said.

The corner of Thorn’s mouth almost moved. “Then you may learn.”

Suraia looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap. She was truly glad for Vasha, but the hollow beneath her ribs had not eased.

Thorn noticed. Of course he did.

“Silverbell, you stay close,” the large elf told her. “That has not changed.”

Her breath caught.

“As our healer,” Thorn explained.

Suraia’s throat tightened so quickly it almost hurt. “I… I don’t want to be a burden,” she said.

“You are not,” the Ee’dornil replied at once.

The human woman lowered her eyes, unable to hold the steadiness of his gaze. The fire popped, and somewhere beyond the clearing, night birds called between the trees. Vasha’s expression softened. Thorn watched Suraia for a moment longer, his face unreadable except for the faint easing around his eyes.

Later, Thorn banked the embers with dry, dead wood so they would last through the night without flaring too high. Vasha checked the perimeter out of habit, disappearing between the trunks with her bow and returning a few minutes later without alarm.

Within the shelter, Suraia checked the cauldron, cleaned the stirring stick, wrapped the herbs and put the food beyond the insects’ reach. Only then did she sit upon the moss bed.

Her fatigue returned like a tide.

Thorn noticed before she admitted it. He drew his black cloak from beneath his pack and shook it loose.

“The night will be cold,” the large elf said.

Suraia accepted his cloak with both hands, her cheeks warming as she drew it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said.

Vasha dropped onto the other moss bed with a satisfied sigh, her tail curling over her ankles as she settled into the shelter’s living warmth.

“So,” the Oakhai said, “we’re wandering healers of broken places now.”

“Druids,” Thorn corrected.

“Healer, druid, apprentice,” Vasha counted upon her fingers.

Thorn settled behind Suraia on the moss bed, close enough for her to feel his warmth before he touched her. He paused, as he always did. She eased back carefully, and his arm encircled her waist, light but steady.

“You have nothing to worry about, Silverbell,” the Ee’dornil said softly in the darkness. “I made a vow long ago to protect the innocent and worthy. You are my ward. I am not going to abandon you.”

The words pressed into places within her chest that dread had occupied for far too long. Suraia nodded. Across from them, Vasha had fallen quiet. She was not yet asleep, but she was listening.

“Rest now,” Thorn said. “Tomorrow we venture deeper into the forest.”

Suraia closed her eyes. This time, when sleep took her, it did not feel like falling.

It felt like being held.