The ocean finally gave up its hold on them at dawn.

  The tide eased like a sigh, brushing Myrrkaal’s injured tail against white sand, and the beast collapsed into the shallows with a rattling, exhausted croon. Lark slid off her flank, his legs giving out beneath him. He crumpled to the surf, clutching Azalea tight in his arms, even as his whole back screamed from a gash he hadn’t dared look at. His soaked shirt clung to it like gauze. When the wind shifted, it stung like knives.

  They were alive.

  Barely.

  Azalea’s chest rose and fell with soft, irregular breaths. Her face was too pale, framed in silver-white hair stuck with salt and blood. A thin line of dried red had feathered down from her ear and over her throat, like a necklace of violence. Lark’s hands trembled as he carried her to the edge of the tree line and tucked her against the curve of one’s root. The wood cradled her sleeping figure. It was shady. It would do for now.

  The tidalrook—gargantuan, battered,— slithered further into the waters, her form disappearing into the approaching waves.

  He stumbled over dry shells, sand hot even this early, every step a throb through the wound across his back. It was long, he thought. Maybe shallow, but long. Torn by claws and salt-crusted. It couldn’t get infected, he couldn’t afford that.

  The jungle yawned wide ahead of him. Dense, lush, damp. Trees bowed in strange arches, vines swaying even where there was no wind. The air was heavy—fragrant and spiced with something like citrus, but layered over a sour, earthy smell like old wood and rot.

  He ducked under low branches and stepped through thick leaves until he found a pond tucked into the ground. Deep, glassy. Clear enough to see the stones at the bottom and the darting shadows of long-legged insects skating its surface. He peeled off his shirt with shaking hands and crouched at the edge, dipping a cloth into the pond and pressing it to his back. His claws dug into the dirt. The pain was nearly electric—but clean. It stung in a way that promised healing. “Shit—Sel’s fiery hell—”

  He stayed like that for a while, in silence. Breathing, letting his muscles unknot. Then, he felt it. The barest touch.

  Something like a root—gentle. Stroking down the curve of his spine.

  Lark flinched, spinning around with ears up, eyes wide, claws out.

  lNothing.

  Just the stillness of the pond and the vines swaying above. But then the root moved again—just barely.

  This time, Lark didn’t flinch. He reached back with one hand and smacked the thing away—not hard, just enough to say, no thanks.

  It retreated instantly. Quicker than it should have.

  And then something stepped out of the forest. Lark stumbled to his feet, bare from the waist up, cloth still in one hand, his back aching and blood drying sticky down his spine. The creature was… immense.

  Its legs moved like a deer’s—four of them, jointed like a stag’s but made of bark and knotted stone, each joint mossy and slick with dew. Its upper body was vaguely humanoid, but too long in the arms, and its hands had too many knuckles. Vines were woven through its limbs, and mushrooms grew from one shoulder like decoration. Its head was crowned with antlers, and its face, Well, it didn’t have one.

  Just a smooth, bark-like plate, and glowing blue moss where the eyes should be.

  It tilted its head at him. Lark didn’t move.

  “…Hi,” he said finally. “I’m not food.”

  The creature tilted its heavy head. Then it reached down—its fingers splitting open like vines growing—and gently plucked Lark up by the leg.

  “HEY—WAIT—!”

  Too late.

  The creature didn’t answer, didn’t hesitate. It turned and began walking—gracefully, almost politely, through the thick trees, Lark dangling like a wet cat from one oversized fist. He flailed, upside down, yelling hoarse protests as he clawed at the wooden limbs, reaching back to the direction of shore, to Azalea.

  The canopy grew denser, sunlight bleeding through in thick golden beams that made the air glow. Flowers bloomed where they walked—literally bloomed. Some opened with soft popping sounds. Others let out little shrieks of joy as they passed, petals trembling.

  The ground turned springy with moss. Crickets chirped, but slower, almost in rhythm. The air was scented thick with perfume. Then, the forest opened up.

  And Lark found himself at the roots of an enormous hollowed-out tree—its trunk split in a spiral like a shell, forming a natural doorway. Flowers spilled from its base, carpeting the moss like a welcome mat.

  Light filtered in through natural windows above. Pools of glowing sap dotted the floor, and in the center, lounging in a hammock of woven leaves strung between two wide roots, was a figure.

  Long, limbs. A lean body that shimmered like carved wood and velvet skin. Hair the color of ginger root spilled in soft waves to their hips, half-bound with vine cords and living beetles. Antlers rose from their brow, curved and delicate. Their face was angular, striking, somewhere between fae and beast—eyes green as leaves under moonlight.

  They sipped something thick and golden from a curling gourd and were in the middle of a lazy sentence: “Nettle, darling, didn’t I say I don’t need any more—”

  They looked up, pausing mid-sip.

  “Oh,” they said, blinking once. “Oh, you’re not a frog.”

  Lark, still dangling by one ankle, hissed in warning. “Let. Me. Down.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The figure in the hammock sipped from their goblet, waving their wrist in silent command. “You brought me a wildcat, Nettle. What a treat.”

  The golem dropped Lark with all the gentleness of a falling tree. He hit the moss with a whuff and groaned.

  “Interesting. Not very tall, but cute ears. And bleeding,” the figure mused, brushing their hair off one shoulder.

  They stood with a sway, all loose limbs and divine curiosity, and Lark instinctively scrambled backward.

  “Relax, darling,” they said, reaching out a lazy hand. “You’re in the grove. You won’t be eaten.”

  “…Where the hell am I?” Lark rasped, heart still thundering.

  The figure blinked slowly, smile sharpening. “You must not be a very good listener.”

  They stepped closer, light catching on the faint shimmer of stitching on their robes.

  “I said, you’re in my grove.” A beat. “I am Turaleth,” they said, with a half-bow that felt both mocking and amused. “Some call me the Grove Father. Others—well, let’s say the word God gets thrown around. Minor one, sure. Inconvenient one? Definitely. But I am the reason trees talk here and beasts bow. Do try to keep up.”

  He offered a hand to help him up.

  Lark didn’t take it.

  He lifted an unimpressed brow and let it fall with a rustle of their silken sleeve.

  “Suit yourself,” Turaleth said breezily, turning to refill their goblet from a wide-bellied pitcher formed of twisting roots and weeping bark. “Mortals. Always so dramatic. Honestly, it’s like you want to suffer.”

  Lark braced an elbow against the moss, trying to breathe through the tight band of fire across his back. The exertion of walking, bleeding, being dragged, and manhandled by a sentient hedge had finally caught up with him. The pain was worse now—radiating from his spine in hot waves, nausea curling in the back of his throat.

  He groaned and rolled to one side, pressing his forehead to the moss.

  Turaleth’s voice dropped. “Ah. There it is.”

  They stepped lightly toward him, feet whispering against the floor, and crouched with fluid grace. “That would be the infection settling in. Claw wound, isn’t it? Deep. Unclean.” Their eyes, a rich amber-gold threaded with forest green, flicked over Lark’s form.

  Lark flinched when they reached for him, his claws twitching in warning.

  “I’m not going to bite,” Turaleth said, amused. “I could, but not without a good vintage and a lot more moonlight. Relax.”

  “You’re weird,” Lark muttered, voice slurred slightly.

  “Thank you.”

  With the gentleness of spring rain, Turaleth brushed damp curls away from Lark’s temple and pressed two fingers to his brow. Lark tried to resist the calming rush that followed—but it wasn’t magic, not exactly. It was… nature itself, lapping against his senses like waves over stone. Slow. Patient. Indifferent, but warm.

  “I could heal you,” Turaleth said. “Or you could stay like this, leaking on my moss. But you’re not my first stray, wildcat. I’m terribly good at mending what’s broken.” A pause. “If you let me.”

  Lark hesitated. Then, with a grunt, he nodded once—short and sharp.

  Turaleth’s smile went feline.

  “Wonderful.”

  They stood and called softly into the air, “Aneesa, darling. Bring me the amberglass sap. The good one.”

  A small nymph trotted into the clearing—she had features that of a faun, furred legs and ram horns spiraling from her skull, her hair misty grey. She plopped a gourd the size of Lark’s head at Turaleth’s feet with a simple nod.

  “Good lass.” Turaleth picked it up and uncorked it with a pop, wafting the scent with a pleased sigh. “Smells like crushed thunderblossom and elderflower. Just what the healer ordered.”

  “It’ll sting.” He casually cautioned, pouring a small amount into their palm and gently pressed it to Lark’s back.

  Lark arched and swore—loudly.

  “I said it would sting,” Turaleth chided. “You didn’t ask how much.”

  He writhed for a few moments while the sap did its work—fizzing like soda, cold and fire all at once, threading through skin and sinew like it knew the blueprints of his body better than he did. The pain dulled. Then blurred. Then—lifted.

  He breathed.

  For the first time since the fire, since the waves, since the claws of Ithyra’s sister drove into his back—he breathed without pain.

  “…Hells,” he muttered.

  “You’re welcome,” Turaleth said brightly, wiping their hands on a moss towel. “Now, darling—tell me everything.”

  Lark blinked groggily. “What?”

  “You think I don’t smell the sea? The blood? The siren stink and the fear and the heartbreak?” Turaleth said. They lounged back into their hammock of woven leaves, one leg dangling over the edge. A squirrel-like creature leapt into their lap and promptly fell asleep. “You’ve dragged something wild and wounded into my domain, little one. And I’d like to know why.”

  Lark’s ears flattened.

  “She’s not—”

  “Oh, I know it’s a ‘she,’” Turaleth purred, pouring themselves another drink. “Your emotions are louder than thunder. And she’s the siren, yes?”

  Lark’s stomach twisted. “I need to check on her,” he said, trying to stand.

  Turaleth waved a hand. “She’s alive. Breathing. Cranky, no doubt. Might be chewing on Nettle as we speak.”

  That got Lark upright a little faster.

  “I’m going to find her,” he said, wobbling toward the exit.

  “By all means,” Turaleth said, tilting their goblet in farewell. “But do circle back. I’d love to hear how you two met. There’s clearly a story there—and I do adore forbidden romance.”

  Lark waved him off, hardly catching the tail end of Turaleth’s sentence.

  The path back to the shore shimmered with Afternoon light—sun filtering through the canopy in thick, amber slants. Lark stumbled more than once, legs still shaky but steadying with every breath. The grove’s warmth clung to his skin, like he hadn’t quite left it behind. Sap still tingled along the healing ridges of his back, but the pain had dulled to a ghost of what it was.

  He broke through the tree line, eyes scanning the beach before he stopped dead.

  Azalea was crouched in the sand like a predator, low to the ground, silver hair tangled, her muscles taut and coiled. One hand gripped the hilt of her coral dagger, the other braced in the surf like she might pounce. Blood still matted her temple.

  Three of the Golems—sentient, curious, bumbling root-guardians—stood just out of lunging range, heads tilted like owls. One reached a vine-arm toward her and Azalea hissed—an ugly, low snarl that could’ve come from a reef-lurking beast—and smacked its branch aside with the flat of her blade.

  “Okay—okay, bad time—!” Lark shouted, stumbling forward.

  Azalea whirled at the sound of his voice, her dagger flashing, breath ragged and sharp.

  “Lark?” she rasped, voice half-wild.

  “Hey, hey—it’s me. Just me.” He raised both hands, palms up, in the universal posture of please don’t stab me. “Easy now.”

  One of the Golems tilted its knotted head toward him in what might’ve been recognition. The others didn’t move. Azalea stayed coiled, eyes darting between him and the looming wooden creatures.

  “They touched me,” she growled.

  “They’re… yeah. They do that,” Lark said, edging closer. “It’s like petting to them. Or maybe greeting. Or testing your squishiness, I dunno. They’re kind of like forest toddlers.”

  Her expression didn’t change.

  “They’re not a threat,” he said gently. “They’re part of the grove. One of them dragged me off—like, upside down. It was a whole thing. Honestly I think I got splinters in places I didn’t know existed.”

  Azalea blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  “You let them take you?” she said, voice low, mistrusting.

  “Didn’t let them. It was more of a non-consensual forest kidnapping. But turns out—” He motioned broadly toward the jungle behind him. “There’s a god in there. Real weird. Real powerful. Real… flowery. Name’s Turaleth. He fixed my back, didn’t bite me, offered me booze, and says he wants to meet you.”

  Azalea’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Didn’t say. Probably wants gossip. Or maybe to feel important. He’s got this whole ‘I’m a minor god but you should still worship me’ vibe.” Lark softened his tone. “But he’s not dangerous. Not to us. And he can help.”

  Her shoulders were still rigid, but the dagger dipped an inch.

  One of the Golems took that as permission and crept closer, a single leafy vine reaching out with childlike curiosity.

  Azalea growled.

  Lark lunged between them, arms outstretched. “Nope—no touch!”

  The Golem froze mid-pat, then slowly retracted its limb with a soft creek of bark.

  Azalea rose to her full height, staggering slightly but catching herself with a flick of her tail. Her dagger hung loose in one hand now, blood flaking from its coral edge.

  “If it tries anything—”

  “It won’t,” Lark said. Then added, “And if it does, Gods help it.”

  That finally cracked a ghost of a smirk from her. Just the barest twitch of her lips.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching out.

  This time, she took his hand.

  The Golems watched them go—silent, curious, and deeply, deeply weird.