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The forest tested Amos. A raging stream blocked his path, forcing him to build a raft from fallen logs, nearly drowning in the attempt. A pack of wild dogs circled him one night, but he stood his ground, mimicking their growls until they slunk away. He met an ally in Lila, a runaway girl from a neighboring village, who knew the woods and shared her flint for fire. She warned of the Grove’s guardian, a spectral figure called the Watcher, who judged those seeking the spring. Together, they faced a riddle carved on a boulder: “What breaks but never falls?” Amos, thinking of his own stubborn hope, answered, “Dawn.” The path opened.
At the forest’s heart, Amos and Lila found the Grove—a glade glowing with unnatural light, the air thick with the scent of earth and honey. At its center shimmered the sacred spring, but the Watcher emerged, a towering shadow with eyes like stars. It demanded Amos face his fear: abandonment. In a vision, he saw his ma weeping, the farm lost, himself alone. Trembling, he clutched the acorn, whispering, “I ain’t running no more.”
