The Grove’s Assignment

The glade was quieter than it had any right to be.

Elenna stepped beyond the last bramble line and paused, breath held. The world on the other side was still — not with fear, but with that particular hush found only in sacred places. The kind of silence that settles after a song. No wind stirred the fern-fronds. No birds called. Just the slow creak of old trees and the steady rhythm of her breath.

She adjusted the strap of her satchel and moved forward, boots sinking gently into moss that hadn’t been disturbed in days.

They’d sent her alone. Of course they had.

The Aether flare had been small, barely enough to ripple the wardlines, and already stabilized before anyone could properly investigate. “Routine,” the Grove had said. “We’d send a student, but you’re closer,” always phrased like convenience, never dismissal. But Elenna wasn’t a student. She’d been cloaked for seventeen years. And still, when decisions were made, it was the druids with silver-threaded brows and eyes like slow rivers who were summoned. Not her.

Not yet.

She sighed and pulled the reed-scroll from her pouch again, though she’d already memorized it. Minor tear. No hostile energies detected. Assess, log, return.

Elenna pushed deeper into the glade. It opened before her — a shallow basin ringed in ivy-covered stone, lit from above by fractured sunlight. Pools of warmth and shadow played across the forest floor, catching on fronds and damp bark. The air smelled like early spring: crushed nettles, sweet rot, the lingering edge of wild mint.

And something else. Something floral — earthy, low, and thick with green sweetness. Not sharp. Not enchanted. Just… present.

She felt it before she saw it.

At the center of the basin, half-wrapped in root and clover, was something growing — low to the ground, yet expansive, like a beast in repose. Vines coiled around a thick leafy base, loosely folded like limbs at rest. And at its center, rising no higher than her hip, was a single open bloom.

A flower — if one could still call it that.

Wide as a dinner plate, the petals were thick and heavy, richly veined, their hue somewhere between coral and the inside of a blood-orange. They moved with the breeze — except there wasn’t any. One petal curled inward for a breath, then slowly opened again, as if adjusting to the light. Another vine shifted lazily, brushing over a patch of moss and pausing where it met a stone.

It was… exploring. Touching the world.

Not randomly — deliberately.

Elenna froze beneath the overhang of a leaning pine, heart ticking louder in her ears. The creature — no, the being — pulsed once, faintly, and another tendril stirred. It brushed a fallen leaf from the edge of a mushroom, then curled to feel the texture of bark.

She realized, quite suddenly, that it hadn’t noticed her yet.

The thought made her strangely nervous. Not from fear — there was nothing predatory in the creature’s movements — but from something quieter. Something she didn’t quite have a word for.

Carefully, she stepped into the clearing. The sound of her boot brushing the moss broke the stillness like a whisper in a temple.

That was when it turned.

Not with speed. Not like prey. But with awareness. The central flower angled slightly toward her — no face, no eyes, and yet she felt the shift as clearly as if it had tilted its head. The petals seemed to brighten. One vine lifted, slowly, and curled slightly in midair.

Its attention was fully on her now.

She stood very still.

Another vine rustled through the grass, trailing over a clump of violets, then changing course — toward her. Not fast. Just curious. Experimental. It reached the edge of her boot and paused, tip poised just above the leather.

It waited.

Elenna felt the breath hitch in her chest. Her instincts screamed to catalogue, to assess, to cast a warding if needed. But the being… it was waiting. Like a creature sniffing a hand, trying to decide if it was safe.

She knelt slowly, letting her satchel slide to the ground.

Up close, the scent was stronger — not cloying, not spell-born. Just green. Wet petals. Hollowed bark. The scent of something alive and open.

The vine brushed her boot.

She didn’t flinch.

“Hello,” she said softly, unsure why she was speaking aloud.

The flower leaned fractionally closer, not a command but an invitation.

Another tendril stirred — this one longer, thinner — and reached behind her, brushing the tip of her braid, feather-light. Her skin prickled at the contact. Not magical. Just… touch.

Elenna exhaled slowly. The scanner in her satchel pulsed once, forgotten.

It occurred to her, quite suddenly, that she hadn’t been touched in weeks. Not even in passing. Her days were spent in solitude, her nights under the trees, dutifully recording soil health and root rot, always careful, always quiet.

But here, in this glade, something saw her.

And did not recoil.

Curiosity Meets Curiosity

The flower-being didn’t speak. Not with words.

But it watched her — or something like watching — petals subtly shifting as Elenna moved around it, a low thrum of presence that made the air feel denser, fuller. The vines no longer reached for her directly, but they never rested. They twined and untwined through the moss, coiling over bark, brushing against leaves, dipping into small puddles like fingertips testing temperature.

Elenna cleared her throat, gently shaking off the lingering echo of that first touch.

Focus.

She reached for her spell-scanner, the familiar weight grounding her. The glass prism flickered as she activated the calibration glyphs — a simple readout of ambient aether, energy signature, elemental resonance. If the creature was manipulating the Veil, it would show.

The results pinged softly. She blinked.

Stable. Wild-aligned. No disruption. No aggression.

That wasn’t possible.

She adjusted the prism, trying again with a more sensitive flux sweep. The signature was unusual — rich, layered, faintly biotic — but there was no flare, no aggression spike. It didn’t feel like magic weaponized. More like magic... settled. Rooted.

The scanner chimed again. Behind her, something brushed her satchel.

She turned sharply.

A frond had nosed its way toward the pack, not tearing, just gently pawing at the strap. It pulled back the instant her attention landed, coiling like a scolded animal — but not frightened. Just… aware.

Elenna exhaled through her nose, setting the scanner aside with more force than necessary.

“Still trying to distract me, are you?”

One vine slowly reached toward her again — hesitant, a quiet offer — then redirected toward a fallen blossom on the moss. It nudged the petal toward her.

She stared at it. “Are you giving me a flower?”

The vine stilled.

Then, just as slowly, it touched the petal again and nudged it closer.

A gift.

She swallowed, inexplicably undone by the gesture. “That’s not exactly in the handbook.”

But she took it anyway. The petal was waxy and thick, vibrant coral with iridescent veins. She tucked it into her satchel’s outer pocket without thinking.

The creature pulsed faintly.

Not magic — emotion. Maybe.

She rubbed her temple. “This is not standard protocol.”

Still, she crouched again, this time taking out her sketchbook. If spell-scanning couldn’t categorize this thing, maybe she could do it the old way. The slow way. Eyes and hands. Line by line.

It held still as she worked. Every few minutes, a vine would drift near — not quite touching, just close enough to graze the edge of her boot, or brush her braid like a lazy breeze. Every time, she ignored it. Or tried to.

But her skin knew. Her breath hitched more often than she liked. Her pen trembled once.

She shifted position, thighs beginning to ache from kneeling. Another vine stirred. This one traced along the moss near her calf — not quite touching, but staying close.

Like it had learned she responded to presence. Not contact. Not yet.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” she said, voice low but almost fond.

The bloom opened wider, catching a slant of sunlight through the trees.. Nectar glistened along its inner curve, golden and faintly translucent. Not an invitation. Not yet. But open. Waiting.

She swallowed.

Another tendril brushed against her elbow. This time, she didn’t pull away. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to disturb her sketching, but the lie barely lasted a breath.

The vine lingered. Just resting there. A whisper of warmth.

She was still dressed, still composed — but something inside her had begun to lean. Not forward. Toward.

She reached up and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Her fingers trembled.

A vine mirrored the motion — brushing past her shoulder, curling faintly near her throat.

It didn’t demand. But it didn’t let her forget it was there.

Her heart thudded once. Then again, louder.

The moss beneath her knees had gone damp with warmth. Not wet enough to soak, but soft, springy — a grounding pressure beneath her thighs. Elenna shifted again, pretending to adjust her posture, though she wasn’t fooling anyone. Not herself. Not the creature.

Especially not the creature.

A vine trailed along her outer thigh — not close enough to be lewd, not even truly touching. Just hovering. Its motion was fluid and slow, like it knew what it was doing even if she didn’t.

She set her charcoal down and stared at the nearly complete sketch. It was one of her better ones — fine lines, delicate shading, every petal rendered with reverence. But it felt inadequate. It captured the shape of the being, but not its presence. Not the way it made her feel.

Another vine ghosted past her waist. This one brushed the small of her back before coiling downward — not lingering, not seeking permission, but refusing to be ignored.

“I came here to study you,” she whispered. “But you’re… studying me.”

The bloom pulsed gently in answer. The inner petals shimmered slightly, nectar catching the shifting light in waves. The scent in the air had grown thicker — not stronger, just closer. More intimate.

Green and loamy. Like crushed herbs in a mortar, or sun-warmed petals pressed between pages. It reminded her of summer and skin. Of things kept close.

Elenna reached out.

She wasn’t sure why — to reassure it, to prove something to herself, to gather a sample. But her hand found the edge of a vine, and this time, she didn’t pull away.

It curled around her fingers delicately, not gripping. Just being held.

Her breath shook.

The sensation wasn’t erotic — not yet. But it was deeply felt. Like it was learning her. Remembering her.

She shifted again, only this time it wasn’t to regain composure. Her thighs pressed tighter together, a pulse low in her belly that hadn’t been there before — or maybe had, buried under habit and distance. The vine around her hand tightened just a fraction, a barely-there response. It knew.

A low warmth curled behind her navel.

“I should leave,” she murmured. “I should write this down, report it. I should…”

The sentence faded.

The bloom moved again — not closer, not possessively. Just open. Entirely, achingly open.

Another vine drifted up to brush along her collarbone. One curling shoot traced the curve of her calf.

And still, the creature waited.

It never forced.

It simply stayed — with her. Wrapped in sunlight and moss and scent and patience.

And Elenna, finally, stopped pretending.

She closed the sketchbook.

Not with finality, but with choice.

Then she looked at the flower — full and fragrant and impossibly alive — and whispered, “Show me.”

Letting Go

The silence that followed her whisper was not empty.

It was listening.

Elenna swallowed hard, her fingers still resting on the worn leather of the sketchbook. The glade seemed to exhale — the leaves shivered, the moss sighed beneath her boots, and somewhere deep in the roots, something shivered in anticipation.

The bloom tilted ever so slightly toward her, its petals catching the golden-green light filtering through the canopy above. For a moment, nothing else moved.

Then came the first brush of a vine — featherlight against her boot, curling just enough to test the boundary. Another trailed behind her knee, not gripping, only touching. A question, not a claim.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and let her eyes drift shut as the vines climbed higher — slow, deliberate, reverent.

They were curious.

She could feel it in the way the vines lingered — not possessive, not demanding, but eager. They traced the edges of her clothing like fingertips learning braille, mapping the shape of her beneath wool and linen.

A vine, thicker and firm yet pliant, looped gently around her upper arm, drawing her sleeve down with the softest insistence. Fabric slid from flesh, revealing the pale curve of her shoulder. Another coiled around her waist, not pulling, not tugging — merely urging.

She exhaled, stepping into the motion, letting the robe loosen further.

More tendrils arrived, weaving through the folds of her sleeves, skimming the hollow of her throat, teasing the tie at her waist. Each touch was measured, reverent — as if unveiling her was a ritual unto itself.

Her pulse thrummed beneath her skin, strongest where the vines paused — at her collarbone, at the bend of her elbow, along the outer swell of her hip. They noticed. They noted. And they returned.

One ventured higher, brushing the underside of her breast through the thin shift she wore beneath her robe. She gasped — not shock, not protest, but awareness. Heat bloomed there, sudden and undeniable.

Fabric gave way like water breaking free of ice — inevitable, smooth, unstoppable.

The curling limbs worked together, delicate in their coordination. One peeled back the remaining sleeve, another guided the robe from her shoulders entirely. Linen whispered down her arms, across her ribs, slipping past her hips — hesitant even in removal, as if afraid she might change her mind.

She wouldn’t.

Her breath quickened, chest rising as warmth spread across her skin. The air smelled different without the barrier of cloth — greener, heavier, more real. The scent of moss, of damp bark, of the bloom’s heady perfume wrapping around her like mist.

Only her shift remained.

It clung to her in places sweat had kissed her skin, outlining the peaks of her nipples, the flare of her hips. The vines noted these things. Traced them. Reverently.

A single tendril slipped beneath the hem, inching upward along the seam of her thigh, sending a ripple of gooseflesh in its wake. Higher. Closer. Teasing the edge of her hipbone before retreating again, as if memorizing the path.

The last garment surrendered easily.

A vine coiled beneath the hem of her shift, lifting it as though offering it to the air itself before drawing it slowly upward — over her hips, her waist, the soft curve of her stomach. Another joined, easing it past her breasts, careful not to press too firmly, though she felt the warmth of their touch even through the thin fabric.

When it passed her shoulders, she lifted her arms without thinking — a silent blessing, a gesture of trust.

Naked.

Exposed.

The word flickered through her mind, but it carried no shame. Only truth.

The glade accepted her nakedness without judgment. As if this was always going to happen.

And then the vines embraced her in earnest.

Not all at once, not overwhelming — but with a gathering certainty, like tide meeting shore. Some wrapped low around her thighs, others curved along the small of her back, cradling her as though she were rare, precious. One slid between her shoulder blades, anchoring her gently to the moss-laden ground.

They explored her like moonlight traces skin—soft, certain, unhurried.

One vine, thinner and supple, curled along the sharp crest of her hip, noting the way it jutted subtly beneath her flushed skin. Another pressed flat against her ribs, rising and falling with each breath, syncing its rhythm to hers. A third traced the line of her spine, dipping into each indentation like a seeker charting new land.

Everywhere they touched, she burned—not with urgency, but with recognition. She had been unseen for so long. Untouched. Now, she was neither.

A vine, bold with discovery, swept across the swell of her breast—broad enough to cup its weight, warm enough to make her sigh. It lingered at the peak, circling once, twice, before dragging a fingertip-thin tendril over the tightened nipple.

The vines drew her closer— not forcefully, but with the inevitability of tide and gravity. They coiled tighter around her thighs, her waist, her arms, drawing her into the center of the glade, into the heart of the bloom itself.

Now it hovered above her, vast and radiant, its petals unfolding like a secret whispered open. From its core, droplets of nectar gathered and fell — slow, glistening, deliberate. One landed on her lips.

Sweetness bloomed there — not cloying, not artificial, but deep and alive, like sunlight soaked into fruit. She parted her mouth instinctively, tasting it, accepting it.

Accepting this.

Above her, the bloom swayed, releasing more — tiny pearls of gold kissing her cheeks, her throat, the rise of her chest. She shuddered beneath it, not just from sensation, but from meaning. She was being offered to. Anointed.

And then — contact.

A vine settled against her — not the thin, exploratory tendrils from before, but something broader. Firmer. Ridged with gentle knobs that pressed just so against her sensitive flesh.

It found her clit with maddening ease.

Not grinding, not rubbing harshly — no, it knew better. Instead, it rolled, slow and sure, applying just enough pressure to send a ripple through her abdomen, tightening her breath in her throat.

She gasped.

Her hips twitched upward, chasing the contact before she could stop herself.

Warm nectar dripped onto her lips again, and this time, she licked — capturing the sweetness, swallowing it like a promise. The bloom lowered slightly, as if watching, responding.

The vine moved again.

A slow circle. A careful press. A glide through her wetness, gathering her heat, carrying it upward to tease the hood of her clit once more.

The vine nudged against her entrance — broad, warm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat synced to some ancient rhythm buried deep in the roots of the glade. It didn’t push. It waited.

For her.

Her breath caught, trembling in her throat. There was no turning back now — not that she wanted to. Her body had already chosen, slick and open and hungry. With a slow exhale, she relaxed into the moss, into the vines, into this.

And it slid in.

Not all at once — no, it was far too wise for haste. Inch by thick, knotted inch, it eased into her, stretching her gently, filling space she hadn’t known was empty. She gasped, her nails digging lightly into the petals beneath her palms as sensation flared through her nerves like fire blooming behind her ribs.

Full.

She was full in ways she hadn’t known existed.

The vine inside her didn’t just occupy space — it listened. It pulsed gently against her inner walls, testing, adapting, finding the places that made her breath hitch and her toes curl into the moss. Each knot along its length dragged against her sensitized flesh, not roughly, but with intent — as if mapping her pleasure like constellations in the night sky.

She arched, just slightly — unsure whether to chase the pressure or flee from it.

But there was nowhere to go.

The vines held her — wrists cradled above her head, thighs spread and supported, waist encircled in warm, living embrace. She was utterly open, utterly safe.

And then it moved.

A slow withdrawal, just enough to make her ache, followed by a deep, gliding return — fuller this time, firmer, as if the vine had learned something vital.

She couldn’t suppress the sound that rose in her throat — not quite a moan, not quite a sob, but something between.

The vine moved again — deeper, surer — and this time, she met it, arching her hips just enough to tell it what she needed. What she wanted. It answered, shifting its angle, those ridges dragging across the place inside her that made her vision blur and her breath stutter.

Her fingers clenched in the bloom’s petals, slick with nectar and her own arousal. She pressed her forehead to its warmth, grounding herself even as the pleasure threatened to lift her beyond her body entirely.

Around her, the embrace tightened — not restricting, but holding. Supporting. Reminding her she wasn’t alone.

Never alone.

Wave after wave built inside her — slow, rolling, inevitable.

The vine inside her moved with exquisite patience, each stroke drawing a fresh shudder from her frame, each pause letting the tension coil tighter in her core. She was sweating now, her skin gleaming in the filtered light, her breath coming in soft, broken sounds that blended with the rustle of leaves and the hum of the glade.

Her body knew what was coming.

Even her mind tried to brace — but there was no bracing for this.

When it hit, it wasn’t lightning.

It was sunrise.

A slow, golden breaking open.

Her back arched off the moss, her thighs trembled against the vines that held her, and a cry — soft, surprised, uncontained — spilled from her lips.

Pleasure faded slow and deep, settling into her bones like heat after fire.

The vine withdrew slowly, almost reluctantly, its surface slick with her heat and the nectar of the glade itself. As it pulled free, she felt the absence — not as loss, but as memory already taking root inside her.

Soft pressure remained — slender frond still curled around her thighs, her waist, her arms. Not binding. Never that. Bearing witness.

Her breath came slower now, ragged at the edges, her body limp in the moss and the cradle of living tendrils.

Grounded in Afterglow

She had come apart in its embrace — not broken, but bloomed. And now, in the stillness that followed, she began to return to herself.

The vines did not vanish when it ended.

They lingered, draped across her limbs like garlands after a rite. One looped lazily around her ankle, another still rested at her wrist, its gentle pressure a reminder that she was not alone. That she had been held.

Elenna lay still in the moss, breath soft and uneven, her skin flushed with the warmth of exertion and release. The glade felt changed — not outwardly, not in any way she could measure or chart — but it knew her now. Or perhaps, more honestly, she had finally let it.

The central bloom hovered above her, not withdrawn but watchful, petals half-closed as if it, too, were catching its breath.

She reached up, fingers brushing the thick base of a petal, feeling the tacky residue of nectar where her hand met the bloom. She didn’t mind. It was proof. Of contact. Of care.

She closed her eyes.

No birdcalls. No wind. Just her heartbeat and the whisper-slide of vine against skin as one slowly released her thigh, sliding down her leg like a farewell.

Her limbs were heavy, but not in exhaustion. In satisfaction.

The moss beneath her had molded to her shape, damp and fragrant, clinging to her back and hair. She should have cared — about the mess, about the time, about the field report that would go unwritten.

But she didn’t.

She felt soft. Split open. Seen.

The vines began to retreat — not all at once, and never completely. One remained curled in her palm, twined gently between her fingers. Another traced the edge of her jaw, then fell away. She felt their absence the way one feels the retreat of sunlight: slow, inevitable, a touch cooler than before.

The bloom shifted slightly. Not toward her, but not away either. Balanced. Waiting.

She let her hand fall to her stomach, fingertips brushing the curve of her hip, still tingling.

A smile touched her lips — not wide, not giddy. Just… honest. A bloom of its own.

“It didn’t take,” she thought, dazed. “It met me.”

And that made all the difference.

She rolled slowly onto her side, vines parting like water to accommodate the motion. Her robe lay in a heap nearby, half-covered in moss and shadow. She didn’t reach for it yet. She wasn’t ready to cover herself again.

Not just yet.

A vine brushed her foot — one last touch. A quiet punctuation.

She let her eyes close and breathed in deep: soil, sunlight, and the lingering scent of her own release, wrapped in the wild perfume of the glade.

The world had not changed.

But she had.

The Promise

She redressed not as the same woman who had entered the glade, but as someone who had been answered.

Elenna stood slowly, joints reluctant, skin still buzzing with memory. The vines did not rise to stop her.

They had already let her go.

Not in rejection. In respect.

She bent to retrieve her robe. The fabric was soft and damp in her hands, like a bloom after rain. She shook it out, brushing a few clinging petals free, then slid it over her bare shoulders. It hung differently now — heavier with dew, looser across her chest. Or perhaps she was what had changed.

She fastened the ties slowly, not rushing. Not hiding. Just… closing a chapter.

The glade remained hushed, golden light spilling through the trees like quiet approval. The central bloom stood motionless now, its petals curved inward slightly — not asleep, not withdrawn. Just still. Present.

Waiting.

Elenna approached.

Each step was quieter than the last, her bootprints barely disturbing the moss. When she reached the flower, she dropped into a low crouch — not a druid’s official stance, but something gentler. Personal.

One hand rose to the petal that had cradled her earlier. She touched it lightly. Nectar clung to her fingertips again, tacky and warm.

Her throat tightened.

“The Grove will want answers,” she said softly, more to herself than the creature. “A report. A classification.”

The bloom didn’t react. It didn’t need to.

She sighed, rubbing her fingers together until the gold smear disappeared into her skin.

“I won’t,” she whispered. “I’ll say it was nothing. A harmless flare. A misreading.”

At that, the central petals unfurled slightly — not dramatically, not for effect. Just enough to catch the sun and shine.

She smiled, heart aching with something too full to name.

“I’ll come back,” she said. “If you still want me.”

One vine stirred — a slow, gentle motion near her boot. Not rising. Not touching. Just… present.

She leaned in on impulse, lips brushing the soft velvet of a nearby petal. A kiss. Not lustful. Not performative. Sacred.

Then she rose.

With moss in her hair, warmth between her legs, and something tender blooming quietly in her chest, she stepped back toward the trees.

A lone tendril followed her for a pace or two — then curled inward and returned to the heart of the glade.

She walked out of the glade without looking back — but a part of her would never leave. It had taken root.

Some things, once touched, are never truly left behind.