The grove held its breath.
The girl — or whatever she now was — rose unsteadily. Vines coiled around her legs, lifting her without force, like cradling hands. A crown of moss and antlers unfurled above her head. Her bare feet touched the ground, and with every step, flowers erupted and withered, their ashes feeding the soil.
Percy instinctively moved between her and Annabeth. "Hey. Slow down. You've been asleep for… centuries."
Her gaze snapped to him. "You breathe the salt wind. You drown in storms. But this is not your tide."
Her voice was strange — two tones braided together. One was a girl's: uncertain, rising. The other was older than stone: slow and cold as glacier melt. It wasn't anger in her tone. It was the weight of betrayal, of being left behind.
Grover stepped forward, heart open. "We've been waiting for you. The Wild is dying. Poisoned. Forgotten. We need you."
Something flickered behind her eyes — doubt, curiosity. Annabeth followed Grover's lead.
"They sealed you because they feared you," she said gently. "Which means you matter."
The girl turned toward her, head tilted. "You're the builder," she murmured. "The one who reads the bones of the world."
Annabeth blinked. "Yes. I study architecture — and ancient places."
The girl's voice was almost wonder-struck. "The world remade itself while I slept."
Grover's face was stricken with emotion. "But not for the better."
"She's rising," he added softly. "The one who calls to rot and ruin. The crown of ash."
The girl turned to the trees. Her eyes flashed, not green but gold now — the gold of wildfire.
"Gaea knows I've woken."
She inhaled deeply. "The Wild was abandoned. Pan left. Demeter let them seal me. Olympus turned its back."
Her fists clenched, and the vines around her surged with power. Trees bowed as wind tore through the glade. A dead oak cracked, split open from within — glowing green light bleeding from the wound.
"Why should I help them now?" she asked, bitterly.
And for a moment, Percy felt it — the fear of what might happen if she didn't.
Not vengeance. Not madness.
Nature, unleashed.
Balance, broken.
"You're part of a prophecy," Annabeth said. "We think the world needs you again."
The girl looked to the throne behind her, then to the trees above. She could feel it—the sickness in the land, the burning of forests, the cries of lost animals. The balance had broken.
She nodded once. "Then I will walk again."
===============================================================
Far from Heartwood Grove, in a dying orchard, a shadow stirred.
The figure's cloak was ash. Her crown: thorns and rot. She turned her gaze westward.
"The sealed one wakes," she said with a grin. "Let the Wild rise. I will burn it down."
And with every step she took, the trees around her died.