The trek back to the grove was slower this time, partly because Azalea kept glancing over her shoulder like she expected the Golems to grow fangs and drag them into the earth, and partly because Lark couldn’t shut up.

  “Look at this place.” he gushed, gesturing wildly as they wound through the giant roots and misty undergrowth. “It’s like someone said, ‘what if a painting was also alive and vaguely trying to hug you?’ and then just did it.”

  Azalea followed him stiffly, eyes sharp. The vines didn’t faze her, but when a patch of moss tried to sighcontentedly under her step, she nearly stabbed it.

  “And that smell?” Lark continued. “That’s, uh, tree sweat. Probably. Very normal.”

  Azalea didn’t respond except to flick her eyes back in his direction, a knowing look.

  Lark didn’t mind. He could practically feel her confusion sparking under her skin. She didn’t trust easy—that was fine. Neither did he. But the grove felt right. Like an old song you forgot you knew.

  By the time they reached the hollow tree, the light had shifted into a soft golden haze, warm and humming.

  Turaleth was already waiting for them.

  He lounged against the massive trunk like he belonged there, skin as warm and pale as fresh honey, long ginger hair falling over one shoulder in tangled, living curls. His eyes—those strange, luminous golden-green eyes—glowed faintly even in the daylight, lazy and watchful. Beside him, perched on a knotted root with a stack of herbs in her lap, sat Aneesa: small, goat-legged, glasses slipping down her nose, her grey hair pinned back in a messy coil between two horns.

  The god straightened a little as they approached, setting down a wooden bowl of something steaming and pungent.

  Lark threw out a hand dramatically.

  “Azalea, Turaleth. Turaleth, Azalea,” he said, like he was introducing two kids at a birthday party. “Play nice.”

  Azalea stopped a few paces away, tense as a bowstring.

  Turaleth smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eerie eyes. “Welcome, tide-born.”

  Azalea narrowed her eyes at him. “I didn’t agree to anything.”

  “Nor are you required to,” Turaleth said easily. His voice had a deep, slow cadence, like stones rolling under a river. “I offer only shelter. No bonds. No oaths.”

  Lark edged closer to Azalea’s side, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers. “See? Totally casual. One hundred percent tree hospitality.”

  Azalea didn’t laugh, but her lips parted—a tiny, uncertain sign.

  Aneesa looked up shyly from her herbs, adjusting her glasses. Her voice was soft when she added, “There’s…plenty of space. Safe space.”

  Turaleth nodded. “Stay here a few days. Heal. Eat. The grove will shield you.”

  Azalea’s fingers curled tighter around the hilt of her dagger, even as her body leaned fractionally forward, like she wanted to believe them. Kindness was a snare. She knew it. Lark knew it. Nothing came free.

  Still—

  He glanced to her, turning his back to the deity momentarily with a grin. “C’mon. Look at it this way: if they are evil, we can burn the place down together.” He whispered.

  That earned him a look from Turaleth—amused, mildly exasperated—and a barely-there twitch of Aneesa’s mouth, like she was fighting a smile.

  Azalea stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, she let out a slow, grudging breath and sheathed her coral dagger.

  “For now,” she muttered.

  “For now,” Lark agreed brightly.

  Turaleth gestured toward a low arch of mossy roots where a faint pink glow seeped from underneath. “There’s a hollow set aside for you. Food and water await. Rest while you can.”

  Azalea hesitated—and then moved, following the path with measured, stalking steps, never quite turning her back on the god.

  Lark lingered for a moment longer, eyeing Turaleth.

  “You’re sure you’re not secretly planning to, like…ritually marry us to the trees or something?”

  Turaleth arched one reddish brow, amused. “Not unless you request it.”

  Lark flashed a grin and jogged after Azalea, heart lighter than it had been in days.

  The hollow Turaleth offered them was simple but stunning: a large open space beneath the tree, draped in flowering vines, with smooth, warm wood underfoot and shimmering little ponds built into the roots. It felt alive, breathing, safe.

  Lark sprawled on a cushioned bed of moss with a satisfied groan, letting his damp curls fan out around him. He’d managed to bathe in a crystal-clear pool near the grove, scrubbing off the salt, blood, and sand until he felt mostly human again. Someone—probably Aneesa—had even left out fresh clothes: soft, loose linen pants and a tunic that smelled faintly of cedar.

  Azalea was slower to settle. She paced the edges of their hollow, sniffing the air warily, poking at the vines, tasting the water with the tip of her finger like she thought it might bite back. She didn’t talk much. But she stayed.

  That was enough.

  Lark was just starting to drift off when a scent hit him, sharp and savory and so delicious his stomach howled.

  He practically sprang to his feet.

  Following his nose like a bloodhound, he padded through the hollow and into the back courtyard of the great tree, where the canopy split open to reveal a little sun-drenched clearing. There, crouched over a simple fire pit, Turaleth and Aneesa worked in tandem, grilling what looked like thick, gleaming slabs of fish, brushed with some kind of golden herb sauce that smelled like a holy miracle.

  Lark leaned dramatically against the archway, hand over his heart. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Turaleth smirked without looking up from the fire. “Only with kindness.”

  Lark wandered closer, mouth watering. “You know, you’re a god. Why even bother cooking? Couldn’t you just—” he waved his arms vaguely, “summon a feast or something?”

  Turaleth lifted an eyebrow, flipping a fillet with casual grace. “I could,” he said. “But true food of the gods would kill a mortal.”

  Lark froze mid-step. “Kill?”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Turaleth chuckled under his breath, a sound like a deep river current. “You wouldn’t survive a single bite,” he said, like he was discussing the weather. “Mortal bodies aren’t built for it. You’d burn from the inside out.”

  Aneesa, crouched nearby peeling tubers, giggled quietly into her hand.

  Lark stared. “Cool. Awesome—noted.”

  Turaleth finally grinned—sharp and bright. “It’s how Nyxeros killed Velmorien’s prize mage, you know.”

  Lark blinked. “Who?”

  Turaleth sat back on his heels, firelight glinting off his hair like molten copper. His glowing eyes gleamed.

  “Nyxeros,” he said, savoring the name. “The Pale Serpent. The Trickster. The God of Illusions and Long Teeth.”

  He plucked a leaf from the basket and held it up between two fingers. “Once, centuries ago, the human kingdom of Velmorien boasted the most powerful mage born in an age. A man who could weave stars into spells, who raised whole fortresses overnight with a flick of his wrist.”

  Lark leaned in.

  “But the mage was greedy,” Turaleth said, voice low and lilting. “He demanded the gods bow to him. He locked himself in a tower with relics and spells stolen from shrines.”

  Aneesa’s ears twitched, listening intently.

  “And so,” Turaleth said, “Nyxeros decided to answer him.”

  He tossed the leaf into the fire, where it burst with a tiny crack of gold flame.

  “One night, the mage found a feast laid out in his chambers. Platters piled high, wine goblets shimmering, fruits that bled silver juice. No magic sensed it. No wards detected it. It looked real, smelled real. So the mage ate.”

  Turaleth’s smile grew, wicked and delighted.

  “And the moment the food touched his tongue, he screamed. His body burned from the inside out. His soul boiled. His tower collapsed into a crater of smoking glass. They say you can still hear him weeping if you walk the ruins at dusk.”

  Lark stared, wide-eyed.

  “That’s…horrific,” he said finally. “And also kinda incredible.”

  Turaleth cackled—a bright, rich sound—and threw another herb onto the fire for punctuation.

  “And where’d you fish up that tale?” Lark chuckled.

  Turaleth tapped the side of his head with a sly grin, “I am the librarian of divine drama.”

  Aneesa nodded gravely, pushing up her glasses like this was the most natural statement in the world.

  He was halfway through stuffing his face when he heard footsteps behind him.

  Turning, he nearly choked.

  Azalea stood framed in the archway, the last of the afternoon light catching in the soft beige folds of her new clothes. Her outfit was simple but stunning: a loose, draped halter top with jagged edges, strung with thin silver chains and tiny, glinting pearls that caught the light like stars. Her skirt was layered, asymmetrical, with a handmade crochet net over her hips adorned with hanging seashells and beads that whispered with every step.

  She looked—Lark thought wildly—like something out of a sailor’s fever dream. Something you prayed for and feared in the same breath.

  For the first time in months, he was visibly flustered.

  He tried to say something clever, maybe a nice shirt joke, but all that came out was a weird sort of wheeze.

  Azalea stepped into the courtyard, and for a moment, the world forgot to turn.

  She had exchanged the damp, torn remnants of her old clothes for something entirely different—something Turaleth and Aneesa must have prepared, or perhaps grown from the very tree itself. A two-piece set of light beige fabric that caught the sunlight like mist. The halter top draped loosely around her, jagged at the edges like something shaped by sea winds. Across her chest, delicate chains of silver, tiny pearls, crystals, and charms shimmered in a fragile web. The skirt was a layered, uneven thing, with a net of crocheted lace slung low over her hips, decorated with shells and beads that clicked softly as she moved.

  She looked like something dressed straight out of a sailors dream.

  Lark gawked.

  Not subtly.

  Not a little bit.

  He opened his mouth—trying to say something clever, maybe a nice shirt joke, but all that came out was a weird sort of wheeze. His hands, traitorous things, twitched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His whole body flushed warmer, cheeks blooming red.

  Azalea caught it immediately, of course. Her lips curled in a knowing, dangerous smile.

  Turaleth, ever the benevolent menace, gave a hum of consideration. “Well,” he said lightly, “someoneshould go fetch more herbs from the east grove. We’re running low.”

  He turned an exaggeratedly thoughtful look toward Lark, who was busy trying to remember how breathing worked. “Perhaps one of our young visitors would care to assist?”

  Lark, desperate to say something cool, clutched at the opening. “Yeah! I mean—yes. I could totally. Err—Herb. Collect.”

  Azalea, ever merciful and ever merciless, tilted her head, tapping a finger thoughtfully against one of the silver chains at her collarbone.

  “I think I’ll take Aneesa,” she said sweetly, flashing Lark a sharklike grin.

  Lark physically slumped, looking betrayed.

  Aneesa, blinking owlishly behind her glasses, perked up. “Oh! I’d love to.”

  Turaleth smirked into his firepit.

  Within moments, the two girls were strolling off together into the winding trails beyond the hollow tree—Azalea graceful and predatory in her new clothes, Aneesa trotting along eagerly, her goat-legs nimble on the uneven ground.

  The sunlight flashed against Azalea’s silver web of charms as she moved, the seashells at her waist dancing.

  They made an odd but beautiful pair.

  Aneesa kept stealing glances at Azalea, her curiosity practically vibrating off her in waves. After a while, she couldn’t help but ask:

  “Where’s your tail?”

  Azalea arched a brow, amused. “Hidden,” she said. “I can… shift it. Magic.”

  She slowed, letting the shimmering magic of the island’s ambient energy creep up her legs. For a moment, her feet and calves shimmered into scaled limbs, faintly pearlescent, webbing between her toes.

  Aneesa gasped, nearly tripping over her own hooves.

  “That’s—! That’s amazing!” she squeaked, pushing her glasses up hurriedly. “You can just… change?”

  Azalea chuckled under her breath. “Only between forms,” she said. “Tail when I swim. Legs when I need to walk among you landfolk.”

  Aneesa beamed, utterly fascinated. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Good,” Azalea said, baring a flash of fangs, “you don’t want to meet another.”

  Despite the edge in her words, her voice was warm—playful even—and Aneesa giggled, scampering a little ahead to tug a handful of flowering herbs from a vine.

  Their laughter floated back toward the courtyard like a ribbon of light.

  Back at the fire, Lark slumped dramatically onto a stool made from twisted roots, still half-comatose from the shock of Azalea’s appearance.

  Turaleth merely flipped another piece of fish, utterly unbothered, whistling a tune older than mountains.

  “You know,” the god said, voice syrupy, “it’s very rare for a siren to smile at prey like that.”

  Lark, burying his face in his hands, groaned.

  Turaleth’s grin widened.

  “And even rarer,” he added, voice sly as a serpent, “for them to choose to walk beside another instead of devouring them.”

  Lark lifted his head just enough to glare half-heartedly. “You’re enjoying this.”

  “Immensely,” Turaleth said without missing a beat.

  He slid a beautifully charred fillet onto a wooden plate and held it out to Lark like a peace offering—or a bribe.

  “You’ll need your strength,” he added with a not so subtle wink.

  Lark accepted the plate mutely, ears still burning.

  By the time Aneesa and Azalea returned, the courtyard glowed with warm light—golden from the firepit and soft pink from the enchanted tree overhead. Tiny motes of pollen drifted lazily through the air, catching on the evening breeze like bits of fallen stars.

  Lark sat up straighter when he heard them coming, trying his best to look casual.

  Azalea was carrying a satchel of herbs over her shoulder, a few stray leaves caught in her hair. Aneesa chattered beside her, hands full of lavender-like sprigs, grinning as if she’d just made a lifelong friend.

  “Smells amazing,” Azalea said, dropping lightly down onto the ground beside Lark without hesitation.Beside him. Close enough that their shoulders brushed.

  Lark’s mind fizzed out like a sparkler in water.

  Turaleth, merciful for once, said nothing—only handed them plates heaped with roasted fish, wild greens, and a kind of golden flatbread that smelled like ambrosia itself.

  They sat around the fire together—Aneesa cross-legged and quietly nibbling, Turaleth lounging like a lazy fox, Azalea sharp and glittering and barefoot, and Lark caught somewhere between trying to breathe and trying not to stare.

  For a few moments, there was only the sound of crackling fire, the soft crunch of food, and the hum of the tree overhead.

  Lark, emboldened by good food and Azalea’s easy nearness, turned to Turaleth.

  “You got any more stories?” he asked, grinning. “You know—divine drama?”

  Turaleth’s eyes lit up like someone had struck a match inside his skull.

  “Oh, plenty,” he purred, leaning back on one elbow. “But one of my favorites—” he paused, dramatically flicking a piece of herb into the fire, “—is the time I defeated Korvexia herself. Goddess of Art, Madness, and Inspiration. Bless her fractured little heart.”

  Aneesa’s eyes widened behind her glasses. Even Azalea perked up, a sharp-toothed smile playing at her lips.

  “You beat a goddess?” Lark asked, around a mouthful of flatbread.

  Turaleth looked deeply offended. “Of course I did. In a duel of beauty, no less. The terms were simple: who could create the most breathtaking work—by their own hands, no borrowed magic, no illusions.”

  He tossed his hair—long, coppery, and glowing faintly in the firelight.

  “Naturally,” he said, smugly, “I decided to meet her on her own terms.”

  “And what—” Azalea said, voice dry, “—did you do?”

  Turaleth’s grin turned wicked.

  “I became a woman,” he said, lifting his chin proudly. “Turaleth, Turaia—either, both, neither—fluid as the tides, sweet as spring. I wore beauty itself as my skin. I became the art.”

  He laughed, a rich, glittering sound. “Korvexia raged for seven days before finally conceding defeat.”

  Azalea chuckled, genuine and low in her throat. Even Aneesa giggled behind her hand.

  Lark whistled. “So you’re—”

  “Whatever I like,” Turaleth said, winking at him. “The gods are far less concerned with mortal cages of name and skin than you might think.”

  “Well, still sounds like History’s messiest art collab,” Lark quipped. “I want a painting of that.”

  Turaleth winked. “I have one in my library. Perhaps I’ll show it to you… if you behave.”

  The fire crackled, sparks drifting upward like fireflies. Lark and Azalea exchanged a soft look: tired, hopeful, shadowed by everything they’d endured, yet buoyed by this impossible kindness.

  When the bowls were empty, Azalea rose, brushing bits of moss from her skirt. She offered Lark her hand, and he took it without hesitation, casting Turaleth a smug glance.

  “Come,” she murmured. “Let’s rest.”

  They walked hand in hand through the grove’s softly glowing corridors until they reached their hollow beneath the great tree.

  Behind them, Turaleth watched with a knowing little smirk, sipping his drink. Aneesa leaned her head against his shoulder, already half-asleep, still clutching a sprig of lavender.