The deeper they walked into the forest, the quieter it became. Not peaceful—watchful. Every branch above and root below seemed to lean toward them, curious, cautious.
Percy, Annabeth, and Grover stepped into the heart of the ancient grove just as the sun dipped low, sending slanted beams through the canopy. The grove's center held a throne—grown, not built—of twisted stone and petrified wood. It rose from the earth like a memory, half-buried, half-born.
"This is it," Grover whispered, reverent. "The Heartwood Grove."
Annabeth's eyes darted across the overgrown stones, noting the ivy, the symmetry, the ancient symbols carved into the bark. "There's magic here. Old magic."
Percy stepped closer to the throne. As his foot pressed into the mossy ground, the earth shuddered.
Then the greenfire came.
It licked up the throne like breath—light dancing through fossilized vines, illuminating cracks in the wood. The roots coiled and pulled away, as though freeing something held too long.
And then they heard it.
A breath.
A gasp.
The stone beneath the throne split open with a deep, aching groan, revealing a hollow chamber of roots and light. Inside, curled in slumber, lay a girl.
Her hair was a tangle of leaves and shadow, her skin dusted with moss. Vines gently cradled her limbs. She looked both young and eternal.
"We found her," Annabeth breathed.
The girl stirred.
Her eyes opened—greenfire blazing in their depths.
The ground pulsed. Trees bent inward. Flowers erupted in bloom around her. She rose slowly, the vines loosening their hold, as if recognizing her choice.
The Wild's lost child had awakened.
The wind exploded outward in a silent shockwave, sending Percy, Annabeth, and Grover stumbling back. Leaves spiraled upward in a green whirlwind. Birds shrieked overhead, wheeling through the trees, and from every shadow of the grove, animals emerged: deer blinking into sunlight, a fox with moon-pale eyes, even a black bear, silent and watching. All of nature stood at attention.
In the center of the throne-circle, the girl sat up, gasping like someone dragged from drowning. Her hair tangled with roots, her eyes unfocused and wild.
"Too loud," she croaked. "Too bright."
Annabeth stepped forward, slowly. "We're here to help you. We're from Camp Half-Blood. Do you know who you are?"
The girl's gaze darted, wary and sharp. She touched the stone beneath her, laying a palm flat against its mossy surface. A pulse of green flickered under her skin, like sap in a living vein.
"I was planted," she whispered. "Now I grow. And the world has changed."
Her eyes landed on Percy — narrowed, assessing.
"You carry the sea's weight. That storm-bringer's mark." She inhaled sharply. "But you're not what I dreamed of. Where is the voice of the trees? Where is he?"
Grover's throat caught. "Pan?" His voice trembled. "He's… gone. He faded."
The girl's expression cracked — not in rage, but sorrow. Her lashes lowered. A single tear traced down her cheek, landing on the stone. Where it touched, a violet bloomed instantly. The petals shimmered, then dissolved into dust.
"Then the Wild is mine now," she said softly.