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Chapter Text

Years had passed since the final bells rang through Alfea’s halls, echoing the close of youthful days and training missions. The Winx had ascended into legends—each Guardian Fairy now sovereign over her home planet, protector of balance in a universe that had grown quieter, but never quite still.

In the heart of the Magix dimension, the Council Tower loomed like a shard of glass catching the suns. It was here that Riven stood, arms crossed, in front of the shimmering sigil of the Council’s crest. His long coat bore the insignia of the Magix Protection Force—sleek, dark, efficient. His maroon hair had been trimmed shorter since his Specialist days, but his eyes still held that sharp, unblinking focus.

He hadn’t expected a summons. Not like this.

The chamber doors whispered open behind him. Councilor Thallos, flanked by ethereal light, stepped forward. He looked aged, even for a being not entirely mortal.

“Riven,” the councilor said, his voice crisp and metallic. “We have a situation. One that requires more than power—it requires someone with precision. Someone we trust.”

Riven straightened slightly. “I’m listening.”

“Linphea is under imminent threat. Not a full-scale invasion, not yet, but coordinated, focused attacks. The source is elusive. Flora, as the Guardian Fairy, is targeted. Her power over life, growth, and balance makes her... invaluable.”

Riven felt something shift in his chest at the mention of her name.

Flora.

They hadn’t spoken in years. The last time they’d been in the same room, it had been polite, distant. Not hostile—never that—but separated by history and silence.

Thallos continued, “We need someone to protect her until this threat is neutralized. Not just as a bodyguard, but as a presence. This is a subtle, invasive enemy. We suspect infiltration. She cannot be left vulnerable.”

“And you’re sending me?” Riven asked, a low disbelief in his voice.

“You and Brandon are among our most skilled tacticians. But Brandon is already deployed in the Solarian sector. And you—” the councilor’s eyes sharpened, “—you have history with the Winx. Familiarity is an asset.”

Riven didn’t respond immediately. He could already feel the weight of the assignment settling in his gut.

“I haven’t spoken to her since the coronation of the Guardian Fairies,” he said at last.

“Then it is long past time.”

Riven looked away. He remembered flashes: Flora walking across the Alfea courtyard with arms full of books, vines twirling lazily in her hair; her quiet presence during team missions; the way she smiled without having to speak. He remembered not knowing how to approach her—how her gentleness had unsettled him back when all he knew was conflict.

“Yes sir,” he said finally, his voice cool. “What’s the cover?”

“You’re an environmental consultant from Magix. A formal aide from the Council assigned to assist her with Linphea’s seasonal recalibration.” The councilor’s mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. “You’ll stay at her residence. Observation and protection are your primary directives.”

Riven nodded, fingers flexing once at his sides.

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Thallos said. “You’ll be briefed during the flight.”

As Riven turned to leave the chamber, he felt the pulse of the sigil on the wall flicker once behind him. The Council was never wrong when it came to danger. And they were never vague without reason.

In his quarters that night, Riven packed quietly. His movements were smooth, efficient—standard gear, encrypted comms, field supplies. But still, he hesitated at the edge of his bed, staring at the Linphean crest on the mission packet.

Flora.

He didn’t know what to expect.

But as he zipped his case closed and sat back against the wall, staring out the window at the starline that ran toward Linphea, a thought slipped in—quiet and uncertain.

Maybe this was more than a mission.

Maybe this was a reckoning.

He didn’t sleep that night. And by morning, the ship was waiting.

Chapter Text

The journey to Linphea was uneventful—standard security escort, unmarked ship, atmospheric descent through the veil of emerald mist that hovered above the planet’s surface like a living breath. Riven stood at the viewport, arms folded, staring down at the sprawling forests, rivers that glowed with bioluminescence, and towering trees that made even the ship feel small.

He had barely slept, and yet, he felt wired.

The mission briefing played again in his mind, the Council’s words etched in quiet urgency:

“Flora has deepened her bond with the Black Willow. It’s not just rare—it’s ancient. A conduit of life and balance. With her connection to it, she’s become a nexus of power unlike any other. A light like that... attracts shadows.”

She wasn’t just a Guardian Fairy anymore. She was becoming something more. Something sacred. And sacred things were often hunted.

Riven didn’t know what he’d expected when he agreed, but as the shuttle broke the tree line, Linphea came alive around him. The air shimmered with magic—subtle, quiet, nurturing. He felt it on his skin like warm water. It was different from the aggressive, rigid energy of combat zones or the buzz of cities. This was... something softer.

And it unsettled him. Like most soft things do.

The ship touched down on a patch of mossy clearing. A small teleportation node had been constructed by Linphean engineers—barely noticeable, seamlessly blended into the landscape. Riven disembarked with a silent step, his boots sinking slightly into the earth.

He had her coordinates, but he didn’t need them.

The forest seemed to know where she was. The trees leaned toward a path. Vines gently slithered aside. The entire ecosystem seemed to whisper her name.

It had been years since he’d last seen her. And still, the forest remembered.

He followed the trail for nearly an hour, passing waterfalls, glowing mushrooms, and whispering branches that danced with unseen energy. Finally, the trees opened to reveal a house—more of a living sanctuary than a structure. Built into a massive tree, the home pulsed with gentle magic. Ivy clung to its walls, flowers bloomed around its roots, and soft golden lights hovered near the door like fireflies standing guard.

He stood for a moment, looking up at it. It was exactly the kind of place Flora would live in. Open, alive, protected by the very thing she embodied.

He stepped forward and raised his hand to knock.

But the door opened before he could.

And there she was.

Flora.

She stood barefoot on the wooden threshold, sunlight in her hair, which had grown longer and now carried hints of glowing green at the ends, like the leaves of spring. Her aura was stronger—he could feel it humming under her skin—but she was still unmistakably her. Soft eyes, quiet smile, a presence that radiated peace.

Her gaze found his instantly.

And something quietly woke up inside him.

Not loud. Not shocking. Just... a shift. Like something he’d buried long ago had stirred in its sleep.

“Riven,” she said softly, voice gentle as ever but grounded now, deeper. Like the earth beneath them. “It’s been a long time.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how rigid he looked in all his tactical gear. “Yeah. It has.”

A small pause hung between them—not awkward, just full. Full of unspoken things. Years. Growth. Distance.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later this afternoon,” she said, stepping aside. “But I’m glad you’re here. Come in.”

He hesitated a beat before walking through the threshold. The inside of the house smelled like lavender and something sweeter. Warm light poured through windows that didn’t seem to exist, as though the house was alive and breathed light where it needed it.

Riven took in the space—bookshelves carved into the bark walls, vines blooming from the corners that didn’t exist, a soft hum in the air that felt like music without sound.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said, the words gruff but sincere.

Flora turned toward him with a quiet laugh. “I didn’t do it alone. The forest helps.” She studied him for a moment, and he could feel her eyes moving over him—not judging, just noticing. “You look... different.”

“So do you.”

Another silence. Another beat.

And then she smiled. That same gentle smile she’d always had, though now it carried something deeper. A kind of wisdom that only came from time and trial.

“I imagine they told you everything,” she said as she turned, walking slowly into the home, giving him space to follow. “About the Black Willow. The attacks.”

“Enough to know it’s not safe for you,” he replied. “And that it’s only going to get worse.”

She nodded, her fingers brushing a cluster of glowing petals that bloomed at her touch. “I can feel it too. Something is stirring. Something old.”

Riven exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “Then I’m here to make sure it never reaches you.”

Their eyes met again. For a moment, neither of them moved.

He didn’t know if she could feel it too—that something between them, some dormant echo of what never was. But as she turned and motioned toward a staircase leading up to the guest room, her voice was quiet.

“I’ve made a place for you upstairs. I hope it’s comfortable.”

Riven nodded once. “Thanks.”

As he climbed the stairs with his gear slung over his shoulder, he realized his heartbeat had shifted—slower now, but heavier. Not from nerves. From weight. From something he hadn’t carried in a long time.

He was here to protect her.

But something told him this mission was going to challenge more than just his combat skills.

Something told him it was going to challenge him.

Chapter Text

The first few days passed in a blur of green and gold.

Linphea was quiet, the way a forest is quiet—not silent, but alive with the hum of unseen life. No threats, no battles. Just the soft rhythm of routine. Riven found himself following Flora through her world, the way a shadow trails light.

Every morning, she woke up early, already humming before the sun rose. She’d brew tea from herbs he couldn’t name for the both of them, sip her own cup barefoot on the moss-covered balcony as his waited on the table for him like she’s been doing that for her entire life, and then begin her Guardian Fairy duties—patrolling sacred groves, attending to the health of the planetary ley lines, speaking with sentient trees as if they were old friends. Riven trailed behind, quiet and alert, dressed down in more neutral gear but still very much the protector.

Yet, she never made him feel like one.

Whenever someone from town approached, Flora would greet them with a kind smile, and introduce Riven like he belonged beside her.

“This is Riven,” she’d say warmly, as though they’d shared stories instead of silence all these years. “He’s with the Council. He’s here to help.”

He expected curious glances, hidden hesitation. He didn’t expect the smiles. The way her tone softened when she said his name. The way people accepted him without suspicion—because she did.

It was strange. Strange how quickly the town of whispering trees and walking roots began to feel... manageable. Less foreign. Even familiar.

And it was stranger still how easily she let him in. Like nothing had ever been broken between them.

She walked a few steps ahead of him most of the time, hands gliding across the petals of flowers, greeting forest creatures, radiating life in a way he never understood. But every so often, she’d look back at him with a glance that lingered, as if she was waiting for him to catch up—not just physically.

In the evenings, things shifted.

Flora would retreat to the Grove of the Black Willow, the sacred heart of Linphea hidden behind protective enchantments only she could pass through. Riven stayed on the edge of the grove, close enough to sense trouble, far enough to respect the boundary.

He’d watch from the perimeter as she trained—her power now more refined, less airy and whimsical than he remembered. There was a depth to it, like her energy moved in layers. She could command a tree to uproot with a whisper, could grow a wall of thorns with a flick of her hand.

But the real power came when she stood near the Black Willow, palms open, and simply breathed. Roots responded. Leaves shimmered. The wind changed.

He didn’t know what she was becoming. But it was something more than fairy. Something ancient and vital. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was guarding not just a person—but a force.

Still, for all her power, she never once treated him like a soldier or a stranger. They talked sometimes, briefly.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere,” she teased one afternoon as they passed through a sun-dappled clearing, wildflowers brushing her knees.

“I do,” he said flatly. “That’s the job.”

She looked at him over her shoulder, smiling faintly. “Well... I’m glad it’s you.”

He didn’t answer, not because he didn’t want to.

But because something in him, something long-frozen and heavily guarded, stirred every time she looked at him like that. Like maybe they weren’t just assigned to the same mission. Like maybe he hadn’t completely ruined what could’ve been by keeping her at arm’s length all those years ago.

It felt strange, but it didn’t feel bad. If anything, it felt like... hope. Quiet, patient, and blooming.

And for the first time in a long time, Riven didn’t hate that feeling.

Chapter Text

The first threat came on the fourth night.

It wasn’t dramatic. No great explosion or wave of dark energy tearing through the trees. It was quiet, almost too quiet, until the stillness snapped.

Flora was returning from the Grove, her power freshly charged, her hair laced with shimmering leaves that hadn’t been there when she entered. Riven trailed several steps behind her, scanning the treeline with that same practiced discipline he’d honed over years of assignments and missions.

The moment came without warning: a distortion in the air, subtle and sharp, like a note gone flat. Then came movement.

Thin shadowy figures slithered out of the underbrush—small, quick, shaped like wolves but made of mist. Their eyes glowed red, their bodies rippled with dark runes that pulsed against the otherwise natural world of Linphea.

But Flora didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, palms opening with a soft glow as vines rose up from the ground like awakened serpents. The earth itself responded to her heartbeat—roots coiling, thorned branches whipping forward with precision. Within seconds, she had corralled the shadows into a tangled cage of flora so dense, even the moonlight couldn’t pierce through.

The creatures thrashed once—then evaporated.

Riven watched, tense but still. Not because he didn’t want to fight. But because he realized she didn’t need him to.

She stood there, glowing faintly in the moonlight, breathing slow and even, her magic still humming around her like a protective shroud. She turned slightly, sensing his presence behind her.

“You didn’t jump in,” she said gently.

“You didn’t need me to,” he replied, stepping closer, his eyes still scanning the surrounding trees. “Besides... It was too clean. Like it was staged.”

Flora nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It felt like a test.”

“Of your power. And of me,” Riven added. “They wanted to see how you’d respond—and if I’d break formation.”

She looked at him then, really looked. Her eyes, usually so soft, held something sharper in them now: understanding.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For seeing the bigger picture. Back in the day, you would’ve charged in without blinking.”

His lips tugged slightly. “Back in the day, I was a hothead.”

She smiled at him, warm and sincere. “And now?”

He met her eyes. “Now I’m a hothead with restraint.”

That earned a laugh. Not the shy, polite kind. A real one, light and airy and completely disarming.

That night, after they returned to her home, Flora made dinner. Riven offered to help, but she waved him off with a playful glare and told him to “guard the living room furniture, if it makes you feel better.” He smirked and leaned on the doorframe, watching her move through the kitchen, pulling herbs from jars, chopping vegetables that glowed faintly with magic.

When they sat down to eat—soft-spiced root stew, baked bread with honey glaze—there was a kind of unspoken peace between them.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” Flora replied, taking a sip of her tea. “I guess... It's my way of saying thank you. For not treating me like I’m helpless. Some people still forget I’m a Guardian Fairy now.”

He glanced at her over the rim of his glass. “Hard to forget when you command the forest like it’s your second skin.”

A pause settled in, and then, as if it had been waiting in the air between them, she said, “Do you ever think about the old days?”

Riven’s brow lifted, but not in dismissal. More like: you too?

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Feels like another life.”

“It was,” Flora said softly. “Back then, everything felt... rushed. Like we were always training, fighting, growing up too fast.”

“And I was too proud to actually talk to people,” Riven added with a self-deprecating snort.

“You were... distant,” she said carefully, not unkindly.

“I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

Another silence—but this one felt less weighted. More like... reflection.

“Do you know what happened to everyone else?” Flora asked, stirring her stew absently.

Riven nodded. “Sky’s ruling Eraklyon now—kind of predictably noble. Brandon’s head of the Special Ops division, running missions all over. Timmy’s basically the tech commander of Zenith with Tecna.”

Flora smiled faintly. “Stella’s designing armor gowns and diplomatic wear. Bloom has been expanding Domino’s peace treaties in the Outer Zones. Musa’s still touring between Melody and Magix. Aisha visits her from Andros every once in a while.”

“And you?” Riven asked, watching her.

She blinked, as if caught off-guard by her own place in the question.

“I stayed here,” she said. “Rooted myself. I used to think I’d want to travel forever, but the more I connected to Linphea, the more I realized this is where I was supposed to be.”

Riven nodded, not saying what he was thinking: Maybe this is where I’m supposed to be too.

But he didn’t say it. Not yet.

Outside, the night deepened. The forest whispered softly, calm for now. But Riven couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. The darkness had tested the waters, and next time, it wouldn’t be subtle.

Chapter Text

The rest of the first week passed in a quiet rhythm, delicate as a spider’s web.

Flora and Riven moved around each other like old puzzle pieces—fitting where needed, keeping space where the edges were still too sharp. They didn’t talk much, not like that night after the first attack. Instead, they traded short, quiet comments in the mornings, shared the occasional glance during patrols, and now walked side by side through the glowing forest with the kind of familiarity that came from simply being near someone every day.

Sometimes she’d mention something about their Alfea days—a funny story, an old friend’s habit, a specific detail only someone who had been there could remember. And Riven, to his surprise, would respond. Usually just a grunt or smirk, but sometimes he’d toss back his own piece of the memory, and they’d both smile before falling silent again.

It wasn’t awkward. It was careful and gentle. Like they were rebuilding something with their hands behind their backs.

But the second week began with a storm.

It came just before dawn—when the fog was thick and silver and the air hung low with moisture. Riven’s instinct prickled beneath his skin, and was halfway geared up when the first explosion of energy rippled through the trees.

He was out the door in seconds, sword in hand, tracking Flora’s energy signature through the forest. She wasn’t far—just beyond the northern ridge, near one of the outer groves she was slowly awakening. A sacred spot. Vulnerable. The kind of place that would draw enemies like moths to flame.

When he crested the hill, he found her already in battle. And this time, it wasn’t a test.

The attackers were different—humanoid, cloaked in shadow magic, their forms flickering between solid and mist. There were five of them, each one wielding twisted staves that cracked with unnatural energy. Their presence felt wrong, even to Riven’s trained senses. Like they weren’t just here to fight. They were here to extract something.

Flora stood in the center of the grove, radiant and fierce, her magic flaring in bursts of green and gold as vines lashed out like whips. The earth cracked beneath her feet. Flowers bloomed and withered in seconds from the sheer intensity of the power she was channeling.

Riven didn’t move—not yet. She could handle herself.

And for several minutes, she did, matching them blow for blow, defending the grove’s heart with a quiet, unwavering determination. But just as one of the shadows dissipated, another launched a hidden strike from behind—a twisting bolt of dark magic that shot through the canopy.

It hit her midair, and she dropped. Not far, just a few feet, but it was enough.

Riven was already moving.

He landed beside her in a flash, blade drawn, eyes blazing. The shadow-wielder that had hit her tried to retreat, but Riven moved with the speed and precision of someone who’d trained for this exact moment a thousand times in his mind.

One clean strike cut through the attacker’s staff. Another knocked the figure to the ground. The remaining two hesitated.

Riven surged forward, sword humming with static energy, slashing through the corrupted air with methodical force. He didn’t lose himself, but he didn’t go wild like he used to. He moved with purpose and control. Power restrained just enough to be terrifying.

By the time the last attacker dissolved into shadow, the grove was silent again.

Flora was already pushing herself up, hand pressed to her side where the bolt had hit. Her breathing was labored, but her magic pulsed steadily under her skin; wounded, but not broken. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable.

Riven extended a hand, and she took it. For a moment, as he helped her to her feet, their eyes met with the same electricity that had always existed between them—quiet but undeniable.

“You held off,” she murmured as they stood together, surveying the damage.

“You were winning,” he replied.

“And when I wasn’t?”

He met her gaze. “I was right there.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if she had more to say, but she didn’t.

Instead, she just nodded and leaned on him slightly as they began walking back toward the house. Not out of weakness, but out of something closer to trust.

They didn’t speak again on the way home. They didn’t need to, but the shift was there—subtle, slow, like a change in the wind. Something between them had cracked open that morning, it wasn’t broken, just... revealed.

And neither of them could pretend it hadn’t happened.

The walk home was slow. The forest seemed quieter after the attack.

Riven kept one arm lightly around Flora’s waist—not holding her up, just keeping her steady. She didn’t protest. She was still glowing faintly, her magic trying to heal from the inside out, but he could tell by the way she winced slightly when she stepped that the hit had done more than she was letting on.

By the time they reached her house, morning light was starting to bleed through the canopy.

“I’m fine,” she said softly, brushing the dirt from her skirt as she sat on the low bench outside her door.

Riven didn’t even blink. “You’re not fine.”

“I’ve had worse,” she smiled, but it was tired, not defiant.

He crouched in front of her, dropping his gear with a metallic clunk. “You’ve also had better judgment.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered. “You’re starting to sound like Tecna.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He peeled back the fabric near her ribs carefully. The burn was ugly—dark magic left a mark that regular healing spells didn’t always catch right away. It crackled faintly along her skin, resisting the healing energy that still pulsed gently from her core.

“I told you-”

“Let me do my job,” he said, his tone softer than usual, but still sharp enough to cut through her protest. “Guardian Fairy or not, you took a direct hit.”

She blinked at him. Then, after a beat, she relented and leaned back slightly, exhaling.

He worked silently, hands surprisingly gentle. She didn’t flinch when he brushed the potion over the wound, even though it hissed slightly. The closeness was palpable, but unspoken—like both of them were still trying to define the shape of whatever had changed between them.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured eventually.

“I’ve been in the field for a long time,” he said, not looking up. “Things get messy. You learn to patch people up.”

“Ever patch up someone who glows?”

He allowed himself a small smirk. “First time.”

They fell quiet again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Finally, when the silence stretched long enough to feel like it needed words, Flora spoke.

“Being the Guardian Fairy of Linphea… it’s not what I thought it would be.”

Riven glanced at her, brow raised. “Too many sacred ceremonies?”

She chuckled, but it faded quickly. “It’s the weight of it. The constant awareness that I’m responsible for everything. Every inch of this forest, every spirit, every creature. I’m not just protecting them—I am them now, in a way. And if I mess up…”

“You won’t,” he said, too quickly.

She looked at him, surprised.

“You won’t,” he repeated, more evenly. “You care too much. That’s your problem.”

She gave a small laugh, tired but sincere. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“It is,” he said, “But it’s the kind of flaw this world needs.”

That quieted her.

And for a moment, he thought about saying more. About telling her what it was like being part of the Protection Force. About how the missions wore you down, how you held the responsibility of not losing people, how you lost yourself sometimes when you mold into what the person you’re protecting needed you to be. About how he’d almost quit three times and went back to fighting. About how he thought he had nothing left to protect until this assignment came through.

But he didn’t. Because Riven didn’t do vulnerable. Not easily. Not without reason.

He stood slowly, packing away the supplies, letting the conversation close itself.

“You should rest,” he said.

“So should you,” she countered. “I’m not the only one who’s been running on edge.”

He gave her a look. “Resting isn’t part of my job description.”

“Maybe you should rewrite it.”

He didn’t answer. Just turned to head inside, his steps heavier than before. Not from exhaustion—but from the pressure of everything he hadn’t said. The parts of himself he wasn’t sure she’d want to see. Or worse—parts of himself he wasn’t sure he wanted to face.

Behind him, Flora leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed, a breeze teasing the strands of her hair. She didn’t say it aloud, but she felt it too.

Chapter Text

By the end of the second week, there were no more peaceful mornings.

What started as scattered attacks became routine. Predictable in their unpredictability—different locations, different enemies, sometimes illusions, sometimes mercenaries, but always just enough to force Flora to fight. Enough to pull from her reserves without allowing time to replenish.

They never came close to defeating her—especially not with him around the corner, stepping in when she needed it—but Riven saw the toll.

She was quieter now. Still soft, still gentle, still Flora… but there was a weariness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Her hands trembled a little after spells. Her connection to the Grove flickered on bad days. And worst of all: she stopped training.

She didn’t have the energy.

Riven had always known when a battle was more than what it looked like. This wasn’t an assault. It was a strategy. A slow erosion of strength and mental preservation. It wasn’t about winning in combat. He made sure of that. But despite fighting alongside her, they were always directed at her.. Always aiming for her.

This was about keeping Flora just tired enough that she never reached her full potential. Not physically. Not magically. Not spiritually. This was about stalling her ascension.

He reported back to the Council late one night, through the secured comms crystal embedded in his gear. His voice was calm, as always. But inside, he was wound tight with frustration.

“She’s not breaking,” he said to the Council’s holographic forms. “But she’s not getting stronger either. And that’s the problem.”

The Head of the Council, an older sorceress with runes embedded in her robes, studied him carefully.

“You believe the attacks are designed to wear her down.”

“They are,” Riven said firmly. “Whoever’s behind them knows they can’t beat her in a full confrontation. They’re trying to bleed her powers thin before they awaken fully. Keep her stuck in this limbo.”

A pause. Then a nod.

“We’ve suspected this,” she said. “The Black Willow’s energy is nearing the bloom phase. Once it aligns with her spirit completely, Flora will have abilities that rival even the Great Dragon’s elemental lineage.”

Riven’s jaw tensed. “And she can’t get there if she’s fighting every day.”

The decision came swiftly after that.

Flora needed time. Rest. Space to train uninterrupted. Her role wasn’t just to protect Linphea anymore—it had grown larger than that, intertwined with the balance of magic in the entire dimension. The Council would send a temporary Guardian to Linphea to hold the post in Flora’s absence, stabilizing the forest until she returned at full strength.

Riven was to escort her to a safe, undisclosed location deep within the magical borders of Magix. He would remain her protector, but his mission had evolved: Guard her evolution.

When he ended the transmission, he sat still in the quiet of her living room, barely lit by the flickering fire.

He didn’t like this. Not because it was the wrong move—it was the right one. Logically. Tactically. But it meant telling Flora she had to leave her home. Step away from the roots she had grown into for years. And even worse: it meant revealing just how much was being asked of her.

That she wasn’t just a fairy anymore. She was something more. Something the enemy feared. Something he was starting to feel strangely protective of—not just because it was his job, but because it was her.

He stood and walked toward her bedroom door, pausing just outside. Her energy hummed faintly inside the room—familiar and still so strong, even now.

Tomorrow, he’d tell her.

Tomorrow, everything will change.

Flora took the news quietly.

When Riven told her—gently, more gently than he was used to speaking—she didn’t protest, didn’t ask questions, didn’t even flinch. She simply sat on the windowsill of her living room, eyes cast out over the forest canopy where the morning light was just beginning to stretch through the trees.

The silence between them was loud.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t get angry. But Riven didn’t need her to. He wasn’t the most empathetic person in the world, but he didn’t even have to know her deeply to understand what it meant to ask Flora of Linphea to leave Linphea.

He had heard her talk about it in pieces—about how the forest wasn’t just her home, it was a part of her. About how, since becoming Guardian Fairy, she didn’t just care for the land; she felt it. Lived through it. Each tree, each blossom, each breeze that whispered through the canopy was somehow tied to her essence, despite the responsibility that came with it.

He knew what it meant to walk away from something that made you feel whole. And now, she had to.

She stood after a long moment, still not saying much. Her expression was calm, but her magic was unsettled. Riven could feel it in the air—like leaves trembling before a storm.

“I’ll only bring what I can carry,” she said quietly, heading into her room.

He didn’t follow her. She needed space.

So he waited.

She moved like she had a ritual in mind—gathering vials of essence from her garden, old texts of Linphean rites, a small carved box of dried petals, a pendant shaped like a spiral seed. Practical things. Meaningful things. But nothing that showed attachment for attachment’s sake.

And still, the ache hung heavy in the air.

Riven sat outside on her porch steps, eyes scanning the treetops while one hand hovered over the comm crystal clipped to his belt. He was still waiting on final coordinates for the secondary site—a hidden stronghold managed by the Council. One he’d been to only once, years ago.

But he wasn’t worried about the logistics. He was worried about her.

Because no matter how hard she was trying to make it look easy, he knew it wasn’t. Flora didn’t run from things. She stayed. She grew roots. She made homes out of places and people. And now she was being asked to sever that bond, even temporarily.

He hated this part of the job.

He hated the part where he had to watch someone good gently pack their life into a small bag because they had to choose the greater good of the world over their own peace, all while pretending it didn’t hurt.

He hated that he couldn’t tell her it would be okay—not truthfully. Because he didn’t know if it would be. Not with what was coming.

When Flora emerged again, her satchel slung over her shoulder, Riven stood slowly. She gave him a small smile. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“All set,” she said.

Riven nodded. “I’ll let you know the destination the second they send it through. We won’t travel by portal—too risky. I’ve secured a stealth glider.”

She nodded, still composed. Then she looked back at the house, at the vines curled around the doorframe, at the windchimes made of crystal leaves, at the garden just starting to bloom.

“You don’t have to rush,” he offered, quietly.

But she shook her head.

“If I wait too long, I might not leave at all.”

And with that, she stepped off the porch, past him, into the trees. Riven followed.

Behind them, the house stood still, silent. Guarded now by the new stand-in the Council had dispatched—an ethereal-looking fairy from a different order. Temporary. Functional. Not Flora.

Riven’s comm crystal buzzed faintly against his chest. Coordinates received.

The journey would begin at dawn.

Chapter Text

The stealth glider was small—too small, if Riven were being honest.

It was sleek, silent, matte-black with cloaking enchantments layered into its curved panels. Built for speed, not comfort. And definitely not for two people to sit side by side with no personal space.

Flora’s thigh pressed against his. Her arm brushed his every time he adjusted the flight controls. Her head leaned slightly toward him—not on purpose, just naturally, the way someone did when they were near warmth and safety.

He was very aware of all of it.

She hadn’t said much when they’d taken off. She simply followed his lead, calm and collected, her satchel tucked into the narrow compartment behind them. But now, halfway through their flight to the Council’s hidden retreat—an ancient grove that had been shielded from time itself—Flora was finally asleep.

And Riven couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Her hair had fallen across her cheek, fluttering slightly with each subtle gust of air from the vents above. Her lips parted slightly with each slow, even breath. The faintest glow of her magic pulsed at her fingertips—always connected, always reaching.

He hadn’t realized just how exhausted she was until now, until she finally let go.

It was the first time he’d seen her completely still. No forced smiles, no polite words, no magical focus. Just Flora. Asleep. At peace, even if just for a few minutes. And something in him ached.

He reached out without thinking—fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His knuckles ghosted against her cheek, just briefly, soft and careful.

She didn’t stir.

That alone told him how deep her exhaustion ran. That someone like him could touch her and she wouldn’t even flinch.

Riven turned back to the flight controls quickly, swallowing the strange warmth in his chest. This wasn’t supposed to be personal.

She was a mission. A charge. A council directive.

But the truth, the one he tried not to face, was that something had shifted long before they left Linphea. Maybe in the quiet walks. Maybe in the way she introduced him with such ease. Maybe in the first time she let him help her, really help her, and didn’t push him away.

Maybe it was just… her.

The glider cut smoothly through the air, nearly silent against the rush of wind. They were still at least an hour out, the cloaked forest groves of the hidden retreat waiting just beyond the mountains that shimmered faintly in the distance.

Riven adjusted the altitude slightly. He told himself he needed to stay focused, but his eyes drifted back to her—just once more. Just a second longer.

Flora woke up moments before they began their descent. She blinked slowly, the soft golden haze of sleep still in her eyes, and sat up without a word—though Riven felt the ghost of her weight pulling away from his side.

She didn’t say anything about falling asleep on him. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t ask if he noticed. And somehow, that felt more intimate than if she had.

The glider landed at the edge of the hidden grove in near silence, wards shimmering around the landing pad with ancient runes and invisible barriers. The air here felt heavier, older. Charged with protective magic so strong, even Riven could feel it humming in his bones.

Flora stepped out first, quiet.

She didn’t recognize the place—he could tell from the way she moved. She drifted ahead of him, stepping through the knee-high grass that grew in twisted spirals, past trees with silver-lined leaves and bark like stone. The air here was cooler than Linphea, damp with mist and pine.

“This forest…” she murmured, running her fingers across a low-hanging branch. “It doesn’t sing the way Linphea does.”

Riven said nothing. He didn’t know how to respond. Her words weren’t meant as criticism. Just fact.

He let her explore for a while—wandering the grove’s edge, brushing her fingertips against strange ferns and flowering plants that shimmered with faint magic. She was studying them, quietly cataloguing them in her mind, the way someone might learn the faces of distant relatives they never knew they had.

When they finally made it to the shelter—the so-called “secondary location”—Riven realized why the Council hadn’t been forthcoming with the details.

It was… small. Compact. Tactical. Functional.

And completely unworthy of someone like her.

The door creaked as he pushed it open. A single room with stone-and-wooden walls, enchanted slightly for insulation. The beds were shoved together on the left side of the room, separated only by the thinnest line of space, a sliver wide enough to sidestep through. There was a tiny window over each one, a narrow dresser between them. A closet that barely fits one person’s worth of clothes.

Across from the beds: a miniature kitchen. Small sink, two-burner stove, and a cold box that buzzed when the warding stones activated. A table that could maybe seat two, if neither of them minded bumping knees.

It was clearly meant for survival, not for comfort.

Flora walked in behind him and… said nothing.

She set her satchel gently on one bed and began unpacking in silence, placing her belongings in little pockets of space—her vial of pollen on the windowsill, her spiral-seed pendant on the headboard.

Riven sat on the edge of his bed, suddenly feeling huge. Like he took up too much room. Like he didn’t belong in a place meant for calm and healing.

“They didn’t mention it would be this small,” he offered gruffly, reaching to unclasp the buckles of his gear, as if it was his fault.

Still, Flora didn’t complain. She simply glanced around, then gave a small, tired smile.

“I’ve stayed in worse,” she said gently. “At least there’s a view.”

She nodded toward the window, where ivy-covered cliffs framed a sliver of open sky. It wasn’t Linphea, not even close. But she didn’t protest because she understood—understood that safety came with sacrifice, and protection wasn’t always wrapped in beauty.

Still, Riven hated that this was all he could give her right now. She deserved more.

“You keep the window bed,” he said after a moment.

She paused. “We both have a window.”

He gestured toward hers. “Yours is better.”

She looked at him for a long second, and then—maybe for the first time since they left Linphea—she smiled like she meant it.

“Thanks, Riven.”

He only nodded, swallowing whatever emotion had crept into his chest.

It was going to be a long mission, and now, with only a sliver of space between their beds and nowhere else to go, it was going to get personal.

Chapter Text

The hidden grove, the new planet—it wasn’t a fortress.

Riven knew that the second they arrived.

It was well-warded, cloaked in enchantments that bent perception and repelled unwanted travelers. But it wasn’t protected, not in the way Linphea had been. It didn’t have the natural defense of a sentient forest, or the strength of old magic woven into the land. What it had was distance. Obscurity. A delay tactic.

The enemy wouldn’t find them immediately—but they would keep looking.

Every extra day Flora had here was a gift. Every extra day was borrowed time.

That’s what the Council was banking on: that the enemy would search Linphea first, then the other elemental nexuses, and only realize too late that the true power had slipped between their fingers.

Because Flora wasn’t just a guardian anymore. She was becoming something else.

The piece of the Black Willow had arrived two days after their landing. Wrapped in protective glass and carried by a neutral courier under binding spell, it was a sliver of branch no longer than Riven’s forearm—brittle-looking, blackened at the edges like it had been burned but still pulsing faintly with ancient, silent magic.

Riven watched as Flora unwrapped it with reverence. Her fingers trembled, but only slightly, like the moment held more meaning than she could express.

“They said it could never survive outside Linphea,” she whispered, brushing her fingers along the bark. “That it would die the moment it was cut off from the sacred soil.”

“But it hasn’t,” Riven said quietly, standing just a step behind her.

She shook her head. “No. It’s waiting.”

Waiting for her.

That night, they found the most fertile patch of ground near the cliffs, away from the wards but still within the shielding perimeter. Flora knelt in the earth barefoot, her fingers digging into the soil, her power wrapping around the dormant sliver of the Black Willow like a quiet promise.

Riven stood guard behind her, one hand on his sword, the other on the grip of a small dagger, eyes sweeping the tree line. No threats. No movement. Just silence—and a tension in the air like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Flora closed her eyes. The ground shimmered faintly beneath her. Not with light, not with showy magic—but with life. Slow and steady, like roots stretching down into something deeper than the earth itself.

The branch didn’t glow. It didn’t crackle or break open.

It shifted. Subtly. A heartbeat. A pulse.

And then, in the span of a breath, the soil moved. A shoot, impossibly small, impossibly alive, broke the surface—its stem black as midnight, but its leaf a vibrant, pulsing green.

Flora gasped softly.

Riven didn’t speak, because he knew what this meant.

This wasn’t just Flora growing a plant.

This was her proving the world wrong.

This was the first true test of her power—her connection to something ancient and feared and wildly misunderstood. She wasn’t just nurturing it—she was commanding it, without ever needing to force it. The Black Willow chose her, and it was growing.

“Does it feel different?” Riven asked quietly, stepping forward after a long silence.

Flora glanced back at him, her expression unreadable, her eyes damp with some unspoken emotion.

“Yes,” she said simply. “It feels like… This is only the beginning.”

And Riven, looking down at the impossibly small leaf between them, knew she was right.

They were hidden. Not safe.

They were alone. Not unprotected.

And whatever was coming next… they had to be ready for it.

Nighttime was the hardest.

During the day, Riven had tasks—wards to monitor, perimeter checks to complete, silent watches to take while Flora trained with the Black Willow sprout. It was structured, tactical. He could distract himself with duty.

But at night, there were no missions to hide behind. No threats pressing in. Just the stillness of the grove, the quiet hum of the enchanted trees, and the sound of her breath just a few feet away.

It wasn’t as close as the glider had been, but somehow, it felt more intimate.

Because now, this wasn’t a few hours of flight. This was night after night. Hours of stillness. Hours of knowing she was right there—facing him across a narrow gap, tucked into a bed barely wide enough to stretch out in.

Every time Riven opened his eyes, she was the first thing he saw.

Flora, curled under thin blankets, face soft in sleep—except she wasn’t sleeping. Her breaths weren’t slow enough to be deep sleep. Her fingers would shift occasionally, twitching like they were still chasing vines in her dreams. And sometimes—when she thought he was asleep—she would sigh, soft and weighted, like her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

Riven laid on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the wooden beams above. He exhaled slowly, the breath too loud in the silence of the room.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to feel this much. He wasn’t supposed to be aware of how the air shifted when she turned over. Of how warm the room got just from her magic. Of how safe he felt when she was near, even when he was the one assigned to protect her.

He turned over on his side, facing away. Tried to breathe quieter. Tried to will his body into rest. Tried to not think about her.

Behind him, he heard her shift slightly. And then, after a long silence: “I didn’t think it would be this hard to sleep.”

Her voice was a whisper, barely there. Riven froze. She was awake. Had she been the whole time?

He swallowed. “…Yeah. Me neither.”

Another pause.

“Do you think they’ll find us?” she asked, her tone more thoughtful than afraid.

He rolled back slowly to face her, their eyes meeting in the dim light cast from the ward-stone nestled in the ceiling.

“Eventually,” he said honestly. “But not yet.”

She nodded once, not scared. Just… accepting.

Silence again. Then: “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she said. “We went years without really knowing each other. And now we’re here.”

He smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Sharing a room. Practically breathing the same air.”

Flora smiled, soft but tired. “I think I always wondered what you were like. When no one was watching.”

That caught him off guard.

“…Why?”

She shrugged gently under the blanket. “You were always sharp, distant, but loyal. And sometimes I thought... Maybe there was more underneath all that armor.”

He didn’t know what to say. Because there was more. He just didn’t know if he wanted anyone to see it. Not even her. Maybe especially not her.

He looked away, eyes drifting back to the ceiling. “…You should sleep. Tomorrow’ll be hard.”

Flora didn’t push, but she didn’t turn away either.

“I’ll try if you will,” she said gently.

Riven exhaled through his nose, lips barely twitching. “Deal.”

And for the first time that week, they both eventually drifted off. Not far, not fully. But enough.

Just enough to make the night a little less hard.

Chapter Text

The next morning was different.

Flora stepped into the Grove with her usual grace, quiet as sunrise, her bare feet brushing across dew-slick moss. But this time, there was a buzz in the air—something almost electric. The Black Willow sprout, which had been no taller than her knee yesterday, had grown overnight, grown like it had remembered itself.

Where there had once been a sapling, there now stood a slender young tree, already almost taller than her. Its bark was smooth and obsidian-dark, the leaves fine and shimmering with a green so deep that it bordered silver in the light. Its branches moved not with the wind, but with awareness, subtle gestures like breath or thought.

Riven stood a few feet back, watching carefully. He knew she’d been practicing tirelessly—chanting in the old language, syncing her magic with the rhythm of the earth. But this? This was something else.

Flora reached out with both hands, her palms hovering just over the closest branch.

And the Black Willow responded. Not with aggression. Not even with reverence. But with familiarity. It recognized her. It bent toward her touch. It welcomed her.

Flora’s breath caught softly.

“It’s alive,” she whispered. “Not just as a tree… it’s conscious. It’s remembering what it is.”

Riven didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. He didn’t need to. Because even without saying it, he could see it: this wasn’t a trickle of power anymore. This was a force awakening.

She let her magic flow—gently, delicately, like pouring water onto dry soil. The Willow pulsed in response, and time around them… stuttered. For just a blink. A bird in the distance froze mid-flight. A breeze stopped in mid-rush, leaves suspended like glass.

Then, everything resumed.

Flora pulled back, breathing hard, eyes wide. She hadn’t meant to do that. She hadn’t tried to control time. And yet…

She looked down at her hands, heart racing in her chest.

The memories came like crashing waves—memories of her Enchantix days, of the Trix shrinking in age as if time itself had recoiled. She hadn’t known to understand it completely then, but the Willow had played a role in that magic. Even back then, it had been watching her.

Waiting.

Now, there were whispers in her head—echoes of past guardians, fragments of forgotten spells. She could feel the full weight of it now: the Black Willow was not simply a source of power. It was a keystone .

Ancient. Dangerous. Capable of turning time backward, of distorting nature’s flow. If wielded incorrectly, it could undo decades. Erase entire fates—and she was its master.

She stumbled back from the tree, breath catching. Her knees hit the ground, hands trembling in the moss. It was too much. Too fast.

“Flora.” Riven was there instantly, kneeling beside her. “What happened?”

She couldn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t even try, and it… Time paused, Riven. It paused. I didn’t know I could-”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But what am I now?” she asked, eyes glassy, panic creeping into her tone. “Guardian fairies are supposed to protect the balance—not control it. What if I am the imbalance?”

He shook his head, firm. “You’re not.”

She looked at him finally, eyes raw and vulnerable. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to,” he said with such certainty that it stunned her into silence. “I’ve watched you for weeks now. You nurture everything you touch. Even this thing—this force everyone’s afraid of—you didn’t try to command it. You connected with it. That’s what makes you different.”

Flora sat there, still and small, the weight of the dimension pressing on her shoulders, and for once, Riven wished he could do more than guard her. He wished he could carry some of it.

“You’re important,” he said softly. “To the Council. To the realm. But more than that… to the Willow. To this magic. It chose you. Because you’re good, Flora.”

She closed her eyes. For a long moment, she just breathed.

Then she stood, slower than usual, brushing soil from her palms.

“We should increase the wards,” she said. “If I’m really this important, we don’t have as much time as we thought.”

Riven nodded, but he was still watching her. Because something had shifted. She wasn’t just growing into her power now.

She was realizing what it meant to be feared for it, and that realization would change everything.

The next day, the cold crept in like it knew what was coming.

It didn’t storm, didn’t howl through the trees. It simply settled. Quiet. Slow. And merciless.

Riven had forgotten how deceptive this planet could be. Its winters—what little of them reached its sacred groves—arrived in fractured bursts. Days that tricked you with sunlight before dropping the temperature hard at night, like the warmth had only been a rumor.

By the end of the first cold night, Riven kept to his side of the room, stiff beneath his standard-issued blanket, trying not to feel guilty every time Flora shifted across from him. She hadn’t complained. She never did. But he noticed how her breath fogged when she exhaled. How she curled in tighter when she thought he wasn’t looking.

They both had blankets. Thin ones. Regulation. He told himself it wasn’t his fault. Told himself she’d say something if she needed to.

She didn’t.

On the second night, he tried offering her one of his long-sleeved tops.

“It’s not much,” he muttered, tossing it toward her bed, “but it’s warmer than that scrap you’re wearing.”

She had smiled—gently, like she always did—and accepted it with a soft “Thank you, Riven.”

It helped a little, but not enough.

By the third night, the air had gone brittle. Their breaths hung in the air like ghosts, and even the magically-heated ward stone in the ceiling struggled to push back against the chill.

Riven laid wide awake, his blanket wrapped tight around him. Across from him, Flora was perfectly still. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just enduring.

And something in him cracked.

He stood, blanket in hand, crossed the narrow space, and laid it gently over her.

She stirred instantly. “Riven—no. Absolutely not.”

“You’re cold.”

“So are you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She sat up, shaking her head, hair falling in messy waves around her face. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

That gave her pause.

Riven didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. His jaw was tight, fists clenched at his sides. The silence between them was thick with things neither of them knew how to say.

Then, Flora shifted over. Just an inch. Maybe two.

“…There’s a better way,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes snapped to hers.

She wasn’t joking. She wasn’t teasing. She was offering. Trust. Pure, raw trust.

And it knocked the wind out of him.

They were warriors, yes. Protectors. He had seen her bleed and watched her make trees bloom with her fingertips. But this—her trust—was heavier than anything he could’ve imagined.

He swallowed the thousand things he could’ve said. All the ways he wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That he’d freeze a hundred times over if it meant she wouldn’t have to shiver once. That the only thing harder than protecting her right now was protecting himself from her.

But he didn’t say any of it.

Instead, he nodded once and slipped under the blankets beside her, careful and quiet.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. But the warmth came slowly. Not just from the shared body heat, or the relief from the cold—but from something deeper. From knowing they weren’t alone in this strange in-between place, caught somewhere between war and peace, fear and comfort, past and something like a future.

Flora exhaled, soft and steady, and for the first time in days, Riven slept. Not because he felt safe, but because she did.

Chapter Text

Riven woke up to warmth.

Real warmth—not the kind that came from firestones or force fields or the meager heat of a soldier’s regulation blanket. This was different. This was quiet, gentle, living warmth.

For a second, still blinking sleep from his eyes, he forgot where he was. Forgot about the freezing nights and the attacks and the reason they were holed up in this forgotten pocket of this planet’s wilderness.

Then he looked down.

Flora was curled against him, wrapped in layers of mismatched fabric from both their luggages, hair spilled over his chest, one arm tucked lightly across his middle. Her breath moved steadily against his side, and even though two full blankets and multiple layers of clothes separated them, it felt like too much. Too close. Too good.

His heart climbed up into his throat.

Don’t move.

No—move. Get up.

Don’t ruin this.

She trusts you.

You’ll scare her if you stay.

You’ll hurt her if you leave.

He froze, every muscle tight. Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he shifted, trying to ease himself out from under her without waking her. He barely made it an inch before she stirred.

Flora blinked her eyes open sleepily, lifting her head just enough to look at him. Her voice came out soft, scratchy from sleep.

“…Morning. Would you mind starting breakfast?”

He stopped. Stared.

She wasn’t fazed. Not flustered or distant. Just… calm. Like waking up in his arms wasn’t strange. Like this wasn’t new or wrong. Like it didn’t have to mean anything dangerous or hard.

“Sure,” he said after a beat, voice low and rough. “Yeah. Of course.”

He didn’t say anything about how she’d slept against him. She didn’t explain it, but she smiled. Just a little. Like she knew.

He busied himself in the kitchen, grabbing the dried fruits and rationed grains the Council had sent ahead. His hands moved on instinct, but his head was full—spinning, tugging in too many directions. He had no idea what was happening between them, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to protect himself from it.

Just her.

Always her.

The day passed like a whisper.

No threats. No pulses in the perimeter. Just routine.

Riven completed his rounds, eyes constantly scanning the tree line, the clouds, the ground. The chill still hung in the air, but less aggressively now. The birds returned in brief spurts, and even the wind softened around midday.

Flora spent her time with the Black Willow. Riven watched from a distance, pretending not to, but always listening for the shift in her voice when she spoke to it, coaxed it to stretch its roots farther and farther into foreign soil.

She was nurturing something dangerous. Something ancient. Something incredible.

And still, somehow, she smiled like it hadn’t changed her.

They didn't talk much. They didn’t need to. The quiet between them had settled into something mutual, something steady. Comfortable, even.

Dinner was a simple soup—root vegetables, herbs, a splash of what little broth powder they had left. It was warm, barely. But she thanked him like he’d spent hours making it, and something in his chest did that thing it did now—tightened, pulled, cracked open just a little more.

He laid down first that night. Not because he was more tired. But because he needed to think. Or stop thinking. Or maybe just breathe. He hadn’t figured out which.

But when Flora moved toward him without hesitation—without a glance or a word—and slipped under his blanket, curling against him like she had done it every night of her life, Riven didn’t know what to do. He went still. Like he might break her if he moved.

Her arm draped across his stomach. Her cheek rested just above his heart.

And he just… laid there. Completely dumbfounded.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t wait. She didn’t explain. Like it was decided. Like he had been the one catching up all this time.

His arm hovered above her for a moment before he let it fall around her shoulders, unsure, tentative.

She sighed. Content, warm, safe.

Riven stared up at the ceiling, heart in his throat, unsure if he’d fall asleep at all because this was no longer about the cold.

This was about her choosing him, when she didn’t have to. That was when he stopped trying to count the days left of winter because he was terrified of how much he wanted weeks.

Chapter Text

It started as a flicker.

Something so small it could’ve been ignored—just a blip in the air, a shift in the birdsong, a pulse in the earth. But Riven felt it, like a snap in his spine. His instincts roared to life before his brain had even finished registering the disturbance.

“Flora,” he said, sharp. Too sharp. His voice sliced through the calm like a blade.

She looked up from the Willow, fingers still pressed gently to its bark. “What’s wrong?”

“Stop. Whatever you’re doing, stop. Hide your energy. Now.”

Her eyes widened, confused, but she didn’t hesitate. She pulled her hands back from the tree, muttered a series of quiet spells under her breath, shrinking her aura down like she was folding herself into nothing.

“Inside,” Riven barked. “Go.”

“Riven, I-”

“Now, Flora.”

Her face changed then. Hurt, maybe, even startled. He couldn’t afford to care. Not right now. Not when his tracker was buzzing faintly, signaling something close enough to notice them.

He stayed outside long enough to wipe the ground clean of footprints, scatter their tools, mask the life signature of the Black Willow sapling with every cloaking spell he had drilled into himself these past few years.

Every second, his grip on his blade tightened. Every second, he thought about her inside, exposed and open and afraid.

When he finally went back in, the door clicked shut behind him like a lock snapping into place. He bolted it and turned. Flora was standing near the edge of the room, arms folded tightly around herself. Her shoulders were tense. Her eyes found his—but didn’t hold.

And Riven felt it, that low throb of guilt in his chest.

He hadn’t meant to yell, not like that. But he didn’t apologize. Not yet. Not while his tracker still glowed soft red at his side. Instead, he moved to the window and peered through the thin blinds, silent and still, scanning every shadow in the trees.

His voice, when it came, was low and controlled, but not unkind.

“There’s something out there. It’s not close, not yet. But it’s looking.”

Flora nodded quietly, still shaken.

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “I had to be loud. You had to listen.”

“I know,” she whispered, barely audible.

And yet she still looked like he’d hurt her.

He wanted to tell her he didn’t mean to make her flinch. He wanted to explain that the part of him that snapped wasn’t angry—it was terrified. Terrified of losing her.

But the tracker was still blinking red. And his job wasn’t to soothe her. It was to keep her alive. So he said nothing and didn’t let his hand leave the hilt of his weapon until the tracker dimmed to black.

The rest of the day passed in quiet retreat.

Flora didn’t go near the Willow. Riven didn’t let his weapon leave his side. They moved around the small space in near silence, two shadows in a cabin wrapped in unease.

She read, slowly and quietly—something about planetary ley lines and ancient root systems, even though Riven could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She was trying to keep the day from being a total loss, as if resting was a luxury she hadn’t yet earned.

He didn’t sit. He paced. Checked the window. Stepped outside twice for no more than a few seconds at a time. His tracker hadn’t gone off again, but he didn’t trust that. Not after what he’d felt earlier.

Night came with an eerie stillness. Dinner was minimal. Neither of them had much appetite.

Then Flora spoke. They were both seated near the small fire pit inside, blankets around their shoulders, tension still coiled tight in the air between them.

“Back there,” she started, her voice soft but steady, “When you told me to stop… When you yelled…”

Riven glanced at her, but didn’t interrupt.

“It reminded me of how you used to be,” she said. “Back at Alfea and Red Fountain.”

That landed like a stone. He looked away.

“I was afraid to talk to you then,” she continued. “Even when we were in the same room. You always looked like you were ready to cut someone down. Like being close to people was dangerous or beneath you.”

He wanted to say it wasn’t personal, that he was a different person. But would that have changed anything about how he had yelled at her now?

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, eventually. His voice was low, tight. “But I needed you to move.”

“I know,” Flora said. “And I did move.”

He looked at her then. She was watching the fire, eyes tired but calm.

“I’m not afraid of you now,” she added. “But for a second, it felt like I was back at Alfea again. With a version of you who didn’t care about what people thought or felt.”

He winced at that. Because it was fair. And because it wasn’t true—not anymore—but it used to be.

“That version of me…” he began, then stopped, but forced himself to continue. “He thought walls made him strong. He thought pushing people away was safer—for everyone.”

Flora turned to him. “And now?”

“Now I know I was just scared.”

The fire crackled between them.

He met her gaze. “I’m not that guy anymore, Flora.”

She searched his face for a long moment. Then nodded.

“I know,” she said, gently.

And finally, something inside him settled. Because even if she remembered the old him—she believed in the one he was now.

But Riven still prepared himself for distance.

All night, he braced for it.

After everything she’d said—after the sting of remembering the boy he used to be—he figured that was the cost. One sharp command, one old shadow slipped through the cracks, and whatever fragile closeness they’d built had shattered with it.

He didn’t blame her.

He needed to yell. He had to. But that didn’t make it easier to look her in the eye. And it didn’t make the memory of her flinch any quieter in his head. So when the fire dimmed and they both started to ready for bed, he automatically sat down on his bed, assumed she’d head to hers.

And maybe he would’ve fallen asleep convinced that she was better off over there.

But then he felt the mattress shift, just slightly. Then there she was—lying beside him.

Not curled into him like before. Not pressed to his side. But close. Closer than arms-length. Close enough to feel the warmth of her, to smell the familiar scent of herbs and forest in her hair.

She didn’t say anything. Just turned on her side, back facing him, blankets pulled halfway up her shoulder.

Riven lay there, stunned, breath trapped in his chest. The guilt twisted into something else.

Confusion.

How could she… After all that…

He stared up at the ceiling, rigid and unmoving, every nerve on edge.

She trusted him. Even after the yelling. Even after the reminder of who he once was. After all of that, she still chose to lay here.

He turned his head slightly, eyes catching the curve of her shoulder beneath the blanket, her hair spread across the pillow. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t dare. His fingers hovered an inch away, then curled into his palm. He wasn’t sure he had the right—not tonight.

But the fact that she was here? That alone cracked something open in him.

She wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t afraid.

That terrified him more than anything else. Because trust like that—unspoken, undeserved, unwavering—was heavier than any weapon he’d ever carried.

He whispered, barely audible, more to the silence than to her: “Goodnight, Flora.”

And even though she didn’t answer, her breathing evened out just a second later.

Chapter Text

The morning was quiet, too quiet—still in that way that made Riven’s instincts curl tight with suspicion.

Flora didn’t say much. She moved slowly, deliberately. Like she was carrying something heavy inside her, like speaking it aloud would give it shape.

She didn’t eat breakfast. Just made tea and took it outside, barefoot on the cold grass, walking until she found a patch of untouched green warmed by a stray ray of sun.

Then she sat.

Folded her legs beneath her. Pressed her palms to the earth. And closed her eyes.

Riven watched from the doorway, unsure at first if he should ask what she was doing. But something about the set of her shoulders, the gentleness of her breath, told him this was intentional. That she needed this.

And so the day began.

Flora sat, unmoving, her energy pulled so far inward it was as if the very air around her held its breath.

Riven had never seen her like this. She didn’t flicker. Didn’t waver. Not once. Not even when the wind picked up. Not when birds scattered in the distance. Not when his tracker hummed faintly and then dimmed again.

He didn’t leave her side.

He stayed out with her—hovering near the tree line, circling their small perimeter, weapon strapped tight to his side and eyes scanning every shadow. Every leaf rustle sounded louder when she was in that state, silent and vulnerable. Every breeze felt like a threat.

And the longer she stayed like that, the more he felt it.

That undeniable pulse.

Her power wasn’t just growing anymore—it was concentrating.

He could feel it thrumming in the ground, beneath his boots, in the roots of the trees nearby. The way the wind moved around her instead of through her. The way the plants leaned in, not with curiosity but reverence.

This wasn’t just magic. It was gravity.

It terrified him—not because he didn’t believe she could control it, but because if he could feel it, so could they. Whoever—whatever—was hunting her was getting closer. They had to be.

So he stood guard. Every step. Every second. His eyes never left her.

She didn’t speak a word, and neither did he.

But that night, when she finally opened her eyes, her first words were for him: “You didn’t leave.”

He blinked. Shrugged, trying to make it sound lighter than it was. “Didn’t plan to.”

And when she smiled—just a small, quiet thing—Riven realized how far they'd come from the first days on Linphea. From silence and awkward introductions to this steady rhythm of mutual trust.

She didn’t thank him. She didn’t need to. Because he was starting to understand that showing up was the language they spoke best.

The next few days moved like a dream.

No flickers on the tracker. No shadows through the trees. Just the quiet hum of wind and the rustle of leaves underfoot. Flora spent her days deepening her connection with the Black Willow, its sapling now nearly the height of a person, pulsing faintly with energy older than the stars.

Riven kept his distance—but not in the way he used to.

He trained. Ran drills. Practiced his forms in the clearing behind the cabin with blades dulled and breath sharp in the morning air. He couldn’t let himself grow soft, not even with the illusion of peace pressing around them.

Because peace, in his world, never came without a price.

And the longer the stillness stretched, the more he felt the weight of the next storm.

By the third quiet night, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. They sat across from each other at the small wooden table, the dim light casting soft gold shadows across her face. She looked tired, but calm. Hair loosely braided over one shoulder, fingers cradling her bowl as she listened to the quiet.

He set down his fork, leaned back slightly, and said it plainly: “This isn’t going to last.”

Flora looked up, her expression unreadable.

Riven kept going. “The peace. The silence. It’s too much. Too long. That kind of quiet?” He shook his head. “It always comes before something big.”

Flora didn’t flinch, didn’t argue.

Instead, she asked softly, “You’ve felt this before?”

He nodded. “Too many times. Right before major battles. Ambushes. Invasions. It’s always the same. The quiet is the warning.”

She absorbed that.

Riven hesitated, then added, “I didn’t want the next time I raise my voice to be in the middle of it. I need you to know now—before anything happens—that when it comes, I might not be nice. I might have to move fast or bark orders. I might sound like the guy you were afraid of again.”

She set her spoon down, watching him carefully.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said, voice quieter now. “I just want you to be ready.”

A beat. Then another.

Finally, Flora reached across the table, fingertips grazing his.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, firm but gentle. “Not anymore.”

He felt his throat tighten.

“I trust you,” she added. “So if that time comes, I’ll follow your lead.”

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No solemn vows or swelling magic. Just a quiet promise shared between two people who had come to know each other, not through grand gestures, but through the small, consistent acts of presence and care.

And for Riven—who had lived most of his life with walls higher than any fortress—that trust felt more powerful than any spell. So he nodded once, and picked up his fork again.

But for the rest of the meal, he couldn’t stop glancing at her.

Because when he thought about the fight to come, he didn’t feel alone.

It happened mid-strike.

Riven had been going through one of his drills—sweeping through the clearing with a blade in hand, body hot with exertion and breath measured—when the world held its breath.

At first, he thought it was just him. A rush of blood to the head, maybe. A hallucination from pushing too hard, too fast.

But then he noticed the wind had stopped. Not died down— stopped.

The grass beneath his feet no longer swayed. A bird frozen mid-flutter in a nearby branch didn’t so much as blink. His own breath echoed, loud and foreign in the stillness. No motion. No sound. Even the light felt suspended.

It was like someone had hit pause on the entire world.

He lowered his blade slowly, heartbeat thudding louder now, the only thing that proved time hadn’t stopped entirely. He waited, tense, one hand shifting to the tracker on his hip—but even that was silent. Not a flicker. Not a beep.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The wind picked up like it had never stopped. The bird took off. The leaves danced again.

Riven stood still for a long moment, blade slack in his hand. He didn’t need a magic sense to know what this meant. He needed to find Flora.

He moved fast, cutting through the trees that divided their clearing from the grove where she kept the Black Willow. And when he got there—he stopped short.

The tree had grown.

Not just taller—but older. The bark had darkened, thickened, roots stretching deeper, broader. Its branches wept longer strands of leaves that shimmered faintly with a silver-green sheen. Magic radiated from it, heavy and alive.

And at its base was Flora.

She was standing, hands outstretched, eyes wide and glassy with the faint gold of magic still fading from her irises. She turned slowly as he approached, her breath still catching in her throat.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said before he could ask. “I just—I was meditating, but something inside me… It shifted. It reached for something. And then I felt the world—stop.”

Riven stopped next to her, gaze shifting from her face to the Willow. The air was still humming faintly, the aftermath of something ancient and powerful stirring.

“It wasn’t you,” he said quietly. “Or not just you.”

She looked up at him, uncertain.

“I felt it too,” he explained. “The whole world froze, Flora. The magic in the world froze.”

She blinked, stunned. “You don’t think it was the Black Willow?”

“I think the Willow reacted to you. Not the other way around.”

She took a shaky step back, glancing at the roots, at the flickering glow under her feet. “I didn’t even know I could-”

She didn’t need to finish her sentence. They both knew. Whatever she was becoming—it was more than just a fairy or a guardian of Linphea.

And whatever power was waking up inside her… The dimension was beginning to feel it.

Riven stepped closer, just enough so she’d know he was there. He didn’t touch her—even though he wanted to—but he stood beside her with the kind of stillness that said: you’re not alone in this.

Flora stared at the Black Willow. “If I can do this now… What happens when I’m at full strength?”

Riven didn’t answer.

Because the real question—the one they both didn’t want to say aloud—was: What happens when someone else finds out first?

Chapter Text

The tracker flared to life. A sharp pulse, steady and insistent.

Riven’s instincts kicked in with no hesitation—he was already moving, already drawing his blade, already motioning toward Flora with a curt, “Hide.”

She hesitated for a moment—eyes darting toward him, toward the Willow, toward the woods—but she nodded. She obeyed. Just like he warned her.

But this time, he didn’t stay. He didn’t linger in the cramped shelter of the cabin. Didn’t sit next to the window with guilt rotting in his chest. This time, he went.

He swept the grounds, quick and clean. Erased their footprints, snuffed out the smoke trail from the earlier fire, covered the glowing roots of the Black Willow with heavy leaves and soil. Then, with his blades on his back and his senses sharpened to the point of pain, he stalked into the forest.

He didn’t know what he would find, but he knew he needed to. Because something had changed. The energy had shifted. The peace had ended.

And this time, the enemy wasn’t just testing boundaries—they were closing in.

Flora had tried to stop him at the cabin door. She caught him, one hand reaching for his sleeve. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with the same magic that had paused time itself the day before.

“Riven, don’t-”

“I won’t fight,” he promised, gently brushing her hand off. “Not yet. But I have to know.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. The deeper he went into the woods, the more he felt it. Not just the eerie stillness, but a presence. Watching. Measuring. Not revealing itself, not attacking. Just… waiting.

He moved through the forest like a shadow, keeping his breathing quiet, his steps even. Every branch he passed whispered warnings he couldn't decipher. Then, he heard them.

Not monsters—not exactly.

Voices. Whispers like wind over cracked stone. Breathy and broken, speaking in a language he didn’t understand. He moved closer, crouching behind a thicket, peering through the brush.

Three figures. Cloaked in darkness, their outlines blurry, as if the world didn’t want to hold onto their shape. They weren’t human. Not quite beast, either.

One of them moved its hand, drawing a symbol in the air that pulsed faintly before fading.

Another answered, its voice low and sharp like steel against glass. “…She doesn’t know what she is.”

The third replied, “She will. The longer she’s near the tree, the stronger she becomes. The stronger she becomes…”

“…the harder she’ll be to take.”

Riven’s jaw clenched. He didn’t dare move.

“We need to wait,” one hissed. “Let her bloom. Let her believe she is safe.”

“And the protector?”

The silence that followed said enough.

“He’ll fall with her.”

Riven’s grip on his blade tightened, but he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. Not yet. They were planning something bigger. He’d been right—these small attacks were tests. Decoys. They weren’t after Linphea. They were after Flora.

Because of the Black Willow.

Because of what she was becoming.

They disappeared a few moments later—slipping into the shadows as easily as mist, gone without a trace. But Riven didn’t move right away. He stayed frozen in the brush, heart hammering, mind racing.

He didn’t jump in. He didn’t fight. He listened. And now, he knew for sure. They didn’t want the tree.

They wanted her.

Riven didn’t speak as soon as he stepped back into the cabin. The door closed behind him with a gentle thud. Flora was already sitting on the floor near the small table, her back to the room, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn’t looked up when he entered—hadn’t asked if he was okay, or if he’d found anything. He sat down across from her, slowly. Gave her a moment. Gave himself one, too.

“They’re close,” he said finally. His voice was steady, but low. “It’s dangerous.”

Flora didn’t move, but her shoulders tensed. She kept her gaze trained on the wooden floor.

“They’re not attacking yet,” Riven continued, choosing his words carefully, “but they’re… watching. Studying. You’ve grown stronger. More than even the Council expected.”

He left it there.

He didn’t tell her they were coming for her. Didn’t tell her they called her the bloom. Didn’t tell her they planned to take her after she believed she was safe.

He didn’t need to.

Because when Flora finally looked up, her eyes shimmered—and then spilled over. She didn’t make a sound. The tears came slow, but steady, sliding down her cheeks in perfect silence. Like rain over delicate petals. The sight of it hit Riven harder than anything he'd seen in battle.

Without thinking, without hesitating, he moved closer to her. And then—breaking every boundary he swore to keep—he wrapped his arms around her.

She didn’t resist. She leaned in, curled into his chest like she belonged there. And Riven tightened his hold, grounding her, keeping her anchored to the moment when her entire world felt like it might tip away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against him. “I don’t mean to cry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, the words quiet but firm. “You’re allowed.”

She trembled once, and then the words poured out, soft and raw: “I’m scared, Riven. I’ve never been scared of my powers before, but this... This is different. I can feel it. The Willow’s responding to me in ways I don’t understand. I can feel time shift when I’m near it. I feel like I’m slipping into something too big for me to hold.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I miss Linphea. I miss my home, my friends, my garden. Everything feels like it’s moving without me. And I keep trying to tell myself this is what I was meant to do—but sometimes, a part of me wishes I wasn’t it. That I could go back. That I didn’t have to carry all of this.”

She paused then, and it felt like the weight of the world finally settled into her chest.

“But…” she whispered. “At the same time… I feel important. For once in my life, I feel like I’m not just a secondary character. That maybe—maybe the universe gave me this because I can handle it. I just don’t know how to not be afraid.”

Riven’s hand gently smoothed down her back, steady and grounding. He didn’t offer empty reassurance. He didn’t say “you’ll be fine” or “it’ll get better.” That wasn’t him.

But what he did say came from the part of himself he rarely opened. “You’re allowed to be scared. That doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you care enough to fear losing something.”

He leaned back enough to look at her, just slightly, his hands still resting on her arms.

“And I’ll be here,” he added, his voice lower now. “Until the end. You won’t face this alone.”

And Flora, finally, gave him the smallest nod.

That night, no lines were drawn. No blankets were separated. No silence fell between them.

Just the quiet understanding that something had changed—and this time, neither of them had to pretend they weren’t afraid.

Chapter Text

Riven paced outside the cabin, just beyond the edge of the protective barrier he’d silently reinforced over and over for the past week. Flora was inside, still asleep from sheer emotional and magical exhaustion. The tree pulsed faintly behind the cabin, swaying to a breeze that didn’t quite reach the leaves around it.

He looked up at the stars, then exhaled and made the call.

It was risky—he knew it. The Council had made it clear that this part of the mission required silence. Zero transmissions, no signal spikes, no traceable contact. But the men out there—whoever they were—they were closing in. He could feel it, and the moment Flora’s powers had flickered during meditation yesterday, he knew the countdown had started.

The signal crackled to life after a delay longer than he liked. A familiar voice—measured, firm—came through the transmission crystal.

“Riven.”

It was Lady Virell, Head of External Defense.

“I’m breaking protocol,” Riven said without preamble, voice clipped. “But I’m not compromising. I encrypted this. No bounce-back, no trail. But we’ve got movement. They’re circling.”

A pause. Then, her tone changed. Less reprimand. More concern.

“Understood. How close?”

“Close enough that we won’t get a second warning if they breach.”

Another pause.

“Standby.”

Riven crossed his arms tightly, jaw clenched. Seconds stretched long enough to make him regret even contacting them—but then he heard another shift on the line. Familiar static. A voice underneath it, faint at first. Then solid.

“Yo.”

Riven blinked. Then huffed something between disbelief and relief.

“Brandon.”

“Disobeying rules as always,” Brandon’s voice had that same casual joking edge it always did, but beneath it was something sharper. The same instinct. “You okay?”

Riven didn’t need to explain anything. As Special Ops leader, he knew that Brandon knew everything. Flora. The Black Willow. His assignment.

“I’m fine. She’s… handling it. For now.”

“When?”

“Days. Maybe a week, but not weeks. But they’re not here for a standoff. They want her, not just the tree. They want whatever it is she’s turning into.”

Silence on the other end. Not for lack of words, but because nothing needed to be said.

Riven knew Brandon was thinking the same thing—about what Flora had become, about the burden of protection, about the fact that even though this wasn’t war yet… It will be soon.

“Backup?” Brandon finally asked.

“As soon as they agree. It’ll already be too late if this goes south fast.”

There was a shift in Brandon’s tone. Subtle, but there.

“Then I’m suiting up.”

That made Riven pause.

“You’re already here?”

“Ain’t far. Heard your voice and got moving. They know. And they’re letting us handle it. Guess someone upstairs finally remembered who the hell we are.”

Riven cracked a faint smirk. Just for a second.

“We’ll hold the line,” Riven said after a moment. “Just like always.”

“Always.”

And that was it.

No long goodbyes. No strategic breakdown. Just two soldiers—two friends—preparing for a battle that wasn’t yet written, but coming all the same.

Riven ended the call, silent as the forest around him.

He stared at the tree in the distance, glowing gently in the dark, the way Flora always did. He would protect her. Even if the Council forgot the rules. Even if the world turned on them. Even if the universe burned.

He turned, stepped back toward the cabin—and prepared for what came next.

Riven moved through the cabin, his footsteps soft against the wooden floorboards. The morning chill clung to his skin like static, but it didn’t bother him. Not today. Not after his call.

Knowing Brandon was out there somewhere, hiding in the tree line like a shadow, watching the perimeter in silence, was the first time Riven had truly exhaled in weeks. Their friendship had always thrived on action over words—no need for check-ins or explanations. Just presence. Just trust.

Still, Riven kept that comfort locked deep inside. Flora didn’t need to carry it.

She stirred quietly in the bed behind him, a soft rustle of sheets and the delicate sound of her breath shifting. He glanced back—she hadn’t opened her eyes yet, but she would soon. She always rose early, syncing her rhythm with the tree.

He turned back to the stove, focused on the tea. He brewed it with the leaves she preferred, the calming ones with faint lilac flecks that she said reminded her of home. He steeped them precisely—he’d watched her enough times to know the timing, the temperature, the little swirl she did with the spoon.

He poured it into her favorite mug, the one with the flower handle chipped on one side, the one memory she allowed herself to bring with her from Linphea. The mug that the Winx Club and Specialists pitched in for her birthday back during their school days.

It was Stella’s idea. Tecna gathered all the best materials. Aisha shaped it. Bloom glazed it. Musa painted it. The boys chipped it during transport, bought her lunch and paid for her nails as an apology (Riven had paid for her coffee, even though it was technically Sky and Brandon’s fault).

Flora loved the mug anyway.

Quietly, he placed it on the small table beside her.

She opened her eyes just then, blinking into the dim golden light filtering through the shutters.

Riven gave her a nod. “Morning.”

She smiled sleepily, sitting up with the blanket still around her shoulders. “You made tea?”

“I figured you’d need it,” he said, his tone neutral, but his eyes gentle. “Today might be long.”

She took the mug from him, cradling it in her palms. “Thanks,” she murmured.

He nodded again and sat across from her, pretending to sip from his own mug though his had gone cold. He didn’t need the warmth. Knowing someone had his back—knowing Brandon was there, that they weren’t alone—was enough to steady him.

But he wouldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not when she was already carrying so much.

So he stayed quiet. Let her sip her tea. Let the world feel calm, even if it wasn’t.

Two days passed like leaves floating down a slow-moving stream—calm, unthreatening, but undeniably in motion.

During the days, Flora trained with a new purpose. She poured herself into the Black Willow, drawing from it with care and caution. Each leaf it sprouted, each subtle pulse of its energy, revealed something new to her. Riven watched from a distance, always alert, always circling like a silent sentinel. But when the energy felt steady, when she seemed unburdened, he would move closer.

They spoke more now—not constantly, but with intent. Not just orders, or warnings, or check-ins. Real words. Quiet ones. Like the walls between them were finally starting to crack, not shatter.

Flora had asked him once, as they sat beside the cabin watching the moonlight cast silver across the forest, “Did you ever think you’d end up doing this? Guarding someone like me?”

He had paused, staring out at the tree. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “I used to think I’d always be on the frontlines. Charging in, striking first.”

“And now?”

He shrugged, resting his arms on his knees. “Now I’m here. Guarding someone who’s more important than anything I ever punched.”

She had laughed softly at that, but the smile in her eyes said she appreciated the honesty.

Later, under the glow of the dim lantern in the cabin, he told her more. Not everything. But enough.

“How’d you shift?” she had asked, curled up next to him on the bed, blanket around her shoulders. There was no more frost biting at the windows, no need for layers of clothing or blankets between them. But they hadn’t changed their arrangement.

Riven was laid on his back, his arms crossed over his chest, gaze on the ceiling. 

“I burned out,” he said plainly. “It doesn’t matter how good you are at fighting—if you’re always attacking, always reacting, you start losing sight of who and what you’re fighting for. I didn’t want to be that guy anymore.”

She was quiet, listening.

“I didn’t trust myself to protect people at first,” he added. “But… Learning how to hold a line? How to make sure someone else doesn’t have to fight at all? To see what you’re fighting for every day? That made more sense to me.”

“You protect now,” Flora whispered. “Instead of destroy.”

He looked at her. And for the first time, it didn’t sting to hear it said out loud.

“I try,” he said.

She nodded, her expression unreadable. But the silence that followed was comforting, not awkward. Like they had both shared enough to sit with it.

Outside, the forest slept. Inside, the guardians—of each other, perhaps more than either of them would admit—finally did too.

The next day flew by, routine causing the sun to move down the horizon faster. In the night, the stillness was softer than usual.

That dinner had been quiet—not the strained kind, not the kind they had during those early days—but a silence born from understanding. Their movements had fallen into rhythm long ago: Flora stirring the pot, Riven setting the table, their bodies passing close without flinching. Their gazes holding just a little longer than they used to.

And now, in the dark, with only the faint golden pulse of the Black Willow outside their window casting shadows along the walls, they lay facing each other. They stayed close.

Riven stared at her, memorizing the lines of her face like he was tracing them with his eyes alone. Her lashes, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the warmth radiating off her skin.

And then, for the first time, he reached out. His fingers brushed lightly along her cheek, hesitant at first, almost unsure if he was allowed.

“Flora,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes, already looking at him. “Yeah?”

He swallowed, thumb barely brushing the curve of her jaw. “Do you… feel it too?”

He could’ve meant her powers. He could’ve meant the energy in the air, the slow shift in the Willow’s magic. And maybe that’s what he was hoping she’d believe.

But she didn’t blink, didn’t pretend.

“I do,” she said softly.

And that was it. Two words, spoken in the dark, confirming what neither of them had dared to say.

He leaned in, just a little. Just enough for her breath to mix with his. His forehead touched hers, his hand still cupping her face like she might vanish if he let go.

But he didn’t kiss her.

He wanted to. Saints, he wanted to more than anything. But the weight of what surrounded them—the looming threat, her power still growing, the war they hadn’t yet seen—pressed too heavy on his chest.

Not yet.

So instead, he closed his eyes, letting his breath even out with hers.

She didn’t move away. Didn’t question it.

And when they fell asleep, they did so with their hands still tangled together between them.

Chapter Text

The morning was too silent—and as always, Riven had learned to distrust silence.

When the perimeter alert blinked—a single, muted pulse in the corner of his tracker—he was already halfway to the door. Flora remained inside, meditating by the low flicker of a lantern, unaware. He didn’t bother warning her. He didn’t need to. She would feel it soon enough.

He reached the edge of the treeline where the shadows thickened unnaturally, and then it lunged.

The creature wasn’t massive—some warped beast stitched from smoke and muscle, more scout than soldier. Its strength was laughable, its technique sloppy. Riven handled it easily, blade in hand, movements clean. He moved to strike.

The creature leapt, claws out, aimed directly at his chest.

And then—it stopped.

Suspended midair, its limbs curled like a predatory sculpture. Not breathing. Not blinking. Just stopped. It was different from any freezing spell, the creature didn’t react to the wind or sound. Completely frozen in time.

Riven stumbled back, eyes wide, heart thudding in his ears. He hadn’t done that. There’d been no trap, no stun charge. He turned his head sharply—Flora stood just outside the cabin, her hand raised slightly like she wasn’t sure when it had moved. Her eyes locked on the creature, then on him.

“I didn’t… I don’t know how I did that,” she breathed.

Riven slowly stepped away from the frozen monster, eyes flicking between it and her. “You… paused it.”

“Not time,” she whispered, as if realizing it out loud. “Not the world. Just… it.”

The beast dropped suddenly with a sickening thud as time caught up again. Riven didn’t move, watching as it dissolved into black mist and vanished into the dirt.

He walked over to her, slow and steady, his voice low but tight. “You’ve never done that before.”

She shook her head. “I was scared. For you. I didn’t even think. I just… felt it.”

There was a tremble in her voice, but not fear of the creature. Fear of herself.

Riven reached out, steadying her shoulder, grounding her.

“It’s starting,” he said. “The bloom. It’s close.”

Flora stared into the forest, but Riven was sure she wasn’t seeing any of it. She was looking inward. Searching.

“I didn’t mean to stop time,” she said softly.

“You didn’t,” he replied. “You controlled it.”

That, more than anything else they’d seen so far, proved just how powerful she was becoming and how close the world was to seeing that power unleashed.

And Riven knew the war wasn’t just coming—it was already breathing down their necks. He could feel it in the tension of the air, the way the earth around them vibrated faintly when Flora touched the roots of the Black Willow. He knew Brandon felt it too, wherever he was positioned in the outer perimeter, watching, waiting. They had been close to the Winx for too long not to recognize the signs. This wasn’t just a surge.

This was ascension.

The next two days, Flora shattered some invisible ceiling. It started subtly: sharper awareness, deeper control. But soon, she wasn’t just growing vines—she was commanding ancient seeds buried in forgotten soil. She wasn’t just feeling the planet—she was becoming part of it.

Then, there was the time she froze him.

It had been a messy fight—two beasts, faster than usual, something closer to the real threat. One got a lucky swipe across his ribs before he finished them off. Flora had seen the blood seeping through his shirt as he returned, and immediately rushed forward with glowing hands and a determined glare.

“I said I’m fine,” Riven had snapped, grabbing a cloth and turning away from her.

She hadn’t yelled, hadn’t even argued.

He had taken two steps before his body locked in place, unmoving, breath halting in his chest—not because he wanted to stop, but because she had willed it.

Only for a second. Long enough to unfreeze him the moment she reached him and placed her hand gently on his wound.

“You—Flora, don’t ever do that again,” he said, half in disbelief, half in something like panic.

Her lips curved into a grin, eyes soft and infuriatingly amused. “Then stop being so dramatic and let me help you.”

He didn’t laugh. But something cracked in his chest. Something warm and dangerous.

He didn’t know what terrified him more—her power, or the fact that she was finally using it without hesitation.

The wind had stilled for the night, but inside the cabin, nothing felt still at all.

The darkness wrapped around them like a too-warm blanket, dense and charged. The moon filtered softly through the lone window, casting silver streaks across the small room. Flora laid on her side facing him, arms tucked beneath her head, her breath even but not deep enough to be asleep. Riven stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, muscles tense beneath the blanket they now shared every night without needing to explain why.

They hadn't touched—not since the almost-kiss.

But she hadn't moved to her own bed either.

He exhaled slowly, long enough for her to notice.

“You’re not asleep either,” Flora said softly, her voice brushing against the quiet like leaves in a breeze.

“No,” Riven replied. It wasn’t worth pretending. Not tonight.

A pause. The kind that asked for honesty.

“I thought I'd be used to nights like this by now,” she murmured, eyes not meeting his. “But something feels different. Like we’re on the edge of something.”

He turned his head to look at her. Her hair spilled across her pillow like woven earth, her eyes open and thoughtful, gazing just past him. So calm, but he knew better.

“You’ve been… confident lately,” he said carefully, watching her profile. “Focused, more controlled. Are you still afraid?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her brow furrowed just slightly, then relaxed.

“Terrified,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Every time I close my eyes, I think about how many things could go wrong. That I might lose control. That I might become something I don’t recognize. That I’ll have to give up too much.”

He watched her throat tighten as she swallowed.

“But there’s something in me that says it’s okay. That I’ll be alright. That this is the path, even if I don’t understand all of it yet.”

His heart thudded once, too loud in the silence. He wanted to ask—Is it me? Am I the reason you feel safe? But the words never made it to his lips.

Instead, she turned her eyes to him, quiet and soft.

“What about you?’ she asked. “Are you afraid?”

He couldn’t lie.

“I should be,” Riven said, the truth coming out slower than his breath. “But this—this is what I was trained for. I know how to protect. How to fight. So, no. Not of the war.”

His voice dropped, something heavier pulling his next words out.

“But I am afraid. Just not of that.”

Flora blinked, waiting. Letting him lead.

“I’m afraid of this,” he said finally. “Of how I feel when I’m near you. Of what it means if I stop pretending it’s nothing.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But her smile returned, delicate and understanding.

“Riven…” she said gently, as if she’d known. As if she’d felt it too, long before he said it.

He turned onto his side fully, his arm brushing hers beneath the blanket, inches between them that felt more intimate than anything physical.

“I don't want to make this harder for you,” he added, his voice hushed, raw. “You have enough to carry. I’m just the protection detail. This isn't about me.”

“But it is about you,” Flora whispered. “You’re here. With me. Every day. Every night. You’ve seen me at my most powerful and my most scared. And you never looked away.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The moment felt like standing on a ledge.

“I think…” she said slowly, fingers inching closer across the thin blanket, “That’s why I’m not as scared anymore.”

Their hands touched. Barely. But it was enough to set every nerve in his body alight. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t need to.

Because between the silence and the soft moonlight, between the heartbeat pauses and the unspoken promises, something between them shifted. Something bloomed.

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the forest around them was already stirring with strange life.

The Black Willow stood taller than it ever had before—its dark, gnarled trunk twisted toward the sky like it was grasping at the stars. Its branches shuddered not from wind, but from something deeper. Something ancient. The air hummed with power, vibrating against skin like a second pulse. The ground beneath Riven’s boots didn’t feel like earth anymore. It felt like something sacred, something awakening.

Flora was already outside when Riven stepped out, sword strapped to his back, pulse thrumming in his neck. She stood in front of the tree barefoot in the grass, eyes closed, palms pressed gently to the bark. The morning light barely touched the edge of her face, but her aura—light green and laced with shimmering gold—shone through the fog of dawn.

He didn’t need the tracker to know.

This was it.

There was too much motion in the woods. The birds weren’t singing. The wind held its breath. And Riven could feel them. The enemy. Approaching from every angle like blood in the water.

He didn’t call her name. He walked until he stood behind her, and she opened her eyes before he said a word. Her expression was calm, but there was a tightness to her jaw he knew well. She wasn’t afraid.

She was bracing.

“It’s time,” Riven said quietly.

Flora didn’t move. She didn’t ask what he meant. Because she already knew.

“No more training. No more hiding.” He glanced around the clearing, hand resting near the hilt of his blade. “Whatever you’ve been preparing for—it starts now.”

She turned to face him. Her eyes were bright, but steady. Riven looked at her and saw every version of her that had ever existed. The shy girl in the courtyard. The determined fairy during missions. The uncertain protector learning to trust herself. And now—this. A guardian. A force.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“There’s something you need to know. I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want you to carry more than you already were, but-”

She raised a brow slightly, waiting.

“They don’t want the tree, Flora,” he said. “They don’t want its power. They want you.”

Her lips parted, just barely. There was a moment of silence where the truth settled between them like ash. He watched her carefully, prepared for fear, for panic, for denial. Instead, she exhaled slowly. Her eyes didn’t leave his.

“I figured,” she said softly. “But thank you for telling me.”

Riven frowned. “You’re not surprised?”

“I am. But I’m not afraid of it anymore.”

There was a beat of silence. A hesitation. Then she stepped forward and placed her hand against his chest, directly over his heart.

“I don’t want to run anymore, Riven. Not from them. Not from this.” Her voice was quiet, but unwavering. “I’m ready.”

Riven stared down at her. Her fingers, warm through his armor. Her gaze, stronger than any weapon he’d ever seen.

He wanted to tell her he was proud. That she was stronger than anyone had given her credit for. That she had already won by standing here with fire in her veins instead of fear. But the words lodged in his throat.

He swallowed hard. Nodded once.

“Then I’ll stand with you,” he said. “Until the end.”

Flora smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made the ground beneath them feel just a little steadier.

But the forest didn’t stay quiet.

In the distance, something broke.

A branch cracked—not snapped underfoot, but severed unnaturally, cut clean by magic or metal. A second later, the air dropped a few degrees, just enough for Riven to feel the frost in his breath.

“They’re close,” he muttered, turning toward the trees.

The Black Willow began to glow behind them, light pulsing through its bark like it was alive. The bloom wasn’t just happening—it was choosing her, responding to her readiness. The power moved like a tide, not crashing—but building, slowly, impossibly strong. Stronger than it has ever been.

That night was cruelly quiet.

Riven stood in the doorway of the cabin, sword sheathed at his back but hands resting on the hilt like muscle memory. The sky above was cloudless, painted with stars, and yet it felt suffocating. A tension pulled at the edges of everything—like the air itself knew the storm that loomed just beyond the hills.

The cries had started an hour ago. Distant. Echoing. Not human.

He hadn’t woken Flora.

She was inside, finally asleep—her breath steady and slow for the first time in days. Curled beneath the blankets they’d once shared for warmth, now wrapped around her like armor. And though every instinct in him screamed that she should be preparing, sharpening, training—he didn’t move. He didn’t call her name.

Because if this was the end of their quiet, she deserved to have one last moment of peace. So he stood guard all night.

He didn’t sit. He didn’t blink for too long. He didn’t let his hand leave his weapon. But his thoughts—his thoughts wandered in every direction they weren’t supposed to. Not toward the enemy. Not toward strategy. Not toward the Council’s warnings or the contingencies he had mentally memorized. His thoughts kept circling back to her.

Flora.

Sleeping soundly because she trusted him.

Willing to fight the entire universe not because she wanted power, but because she was power.

He'd seen her break the laws of time. He’d watched her make things grow where life had no right to bloom. He had felt her magic hold him in place—terrifying and gentle all at once.

He wasn’t supposed to think like this. Not now.

But dawn crept up with a strange stillness, and with it, the knowing settled in his bones like weight. This is it.

Not the preparation. Not the practice. The war had begun long ago, but now it was here.

He turned back inside when the horizon shifted from blue to gold. Flora was already awake. Sitting upright in the bed, her feet just brushing the floor, hands folded in her lap. She looked at him the way she had the first time they had been assigned together—curious, tired, and knowing too much all at once.

Neither of them said anything because words weren’t necessary anymore. This was it. They were ready. Ready as they could be.

He walked across the cabin slowly, like each step grounded him in this last second of quiet. Flora stood up, her movements mirroring his—silent, controlled. When they stopped in front of each other, their breath mingled in the cold morning air, the space between them almost nonexistent.

Riven looked at her, and his heart did something it hadn’t done in years. It softened.

She looked so calm. So steady. So her.

But he could see it in her eyes—the same fear he had. Not of dying. Not of losing. But of leaving something unsaid. So he didn’t speak.

He stepped closer, his hand rising gently, fingertips brushing her cheek like she might disappear if he touched too hard. Her breath caught, barely audible. Her eyes didn’t close.

And then he kissed her.

It was quiet and desperate and full of everything he hadn’t let himself say. His free hand curled around the back of her neck, drawing her just slightly closer. She kissed him back without hesitation, without question, without fear.

When they parted, his forehead leaned against hers, eyes still closed.

“I know you’ll survive,” he whispered, voice thick. “Even if I don’t.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he stopped her.

“Don’t. I just… I didn’t want to regret anything.”

There were no more words after that.

They stepped out of the cabin together—hand in hand, blades at their backs, power at their fingertips.

And together, they waited for the war.