The forest remembered her now.
Every step Auri took, the trees leaned closer. The vines shied away to give her room. Even the birds watched her from the branches with a kind of knowing silence. It had been weeks since the fire had come and gone—since pain had cracked open the roots of the world—but now, something deeper stirred beneath her skin.
Change.
Amarasyl had become more than a home. It was growing, breathing, almost dreaming. And Auri, without meaning to, had become its heart.
"You're glowing again," Hope said one morning, smiling softly as she passed Auri in the garden.
Auri looked down. The tips of her fingers shimmered faintly, the same way Lyra's had when she healed the forest. "I don't know how to stop it."
"Don't," Talon said from the other side of the glade. He was carving new beams for the roof that had sagged in the rain. "The forest listens when you touch it. That's not something to hide."
Still, it felt strange—this power that hadn't always been hers. When she reached for the water in the well, it rose without a bucket. When she hummed to the trees, the blossoms turned toward her. And when she cried…
The roots beneath the soil whispered her name.
That afternoon, she returned to the glen where the old willow had once stood. It had been lost in the fire, a hollowed black stump now smothered in moss. Auri stood before it, heart steady, and knelt with her palm to the ground.
"Please," she whispered. "Let me give something back."
There was no answer—no thunder or shimmer—but slowly, the stump cracked. From the center, green threads rose like breath, curling into tender leaves.
By nightfall, a young willow swayed in the wind.
Hope saw it first and gasped. "You brought it back."
"No," Auri said quietly. "She did. I just reminded her how."
Word of the willow's return traveled quickly. By the next morning, the other forest dwellers came—old women in shawls made of moss, children who carried small stones as offerings, and boys with laughter loud enough to shake birds from trees. They gathered in silence beneath the young tree.
Someone whispered, "It's the girl who changed the forest."
Auri's cheeks flushed. "No. I haven't changed anything."
"Yes, you have," said a child with a fox cub in her arms. "My brother used to say this forest was scary. Now he wants to live here."
Another voice, this one older, called out from the back. "You brought green where there was ash."
Hope took Auri's hand gently. "You never asked to be this, did you?"
"No," Auri whispered.
"But you chose it anyway."
That night, Talon crafted a ring from the bark of the new willow. It was small, delicate, and smooth as silk. He didn't say much as he handed it to Auri, just nodded. But his eyes held quiet pride.
She slipped it on.
It fit perfectly.
At the evening fire, as stars stitched themselves across the sky, Auri finally stood before everyone gathered at Amarasyl.
"I don't know what I am," she began, voice soft but sure. "I'm not a witch. Or a healer. Or a queen."
The fire crackled gently. Eyes watched her without judgment.
"But I do know this: the forest changed me. And now I want to change with it."
A hush settled like falling petals.
"I can't fix what was lost," she said, fingers brushing the willow ring, "but I can help grow something new. And maybe… maybe that's enough."
She stepped back, unsure—until the oldest woman in the glade rose from her stool and said, "You've already changed everything."
They lit candles then—one by one—placing them around the willow. The light spread in rings, soft and golden, like warmth finding a home. And above, the stars blinked slowly, as if the sky itself had paused to listen.
Later, alone, Auri stood by the firelight tree. Its red leaves glowed faintly under moonlight.
"Lyra," she whispered, "do you see me?"
The wind stirred.
And the tree dropped a single leaf, crimson and whole, into her hand.