HER CHOICE
Sunlight filters through the canopy for the first time in centuries.
I notice it when I wake—thin golden shafts piercing the perpetual twilight of the forest. Kaelith’s arm lies heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder.
The moss beneath us feels softer today, the air lighter.
Even the trees seem to sigh, their creaks less like warnings and more like old bones settling.
He stirs when I sit up, silver eyes blinking slowly. His hand slides to my thigh, possessive even half-asleep.
“Something’s different,” I say.
He nods, sitting up. The glowing sigils on his chest pulse faintly, no longer the frantic neon they’d been when we first met. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then says in that deep, graveled voice, “The curse… broke.”
I freeze. “You’re talking.”
A half-smile. “You noticed.”
“Ass.” I shove his shoulder, but I’m grinning. His voice wraps around me like smoke—rough but deliberate, each word chosen carefully.
He traces the bond mark on my collarbone, the one that glows when we’re close. “The forest doesn’t hunger anymore. You’re… free.”
The word hangs between us.
“Free to leave?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
I stand, brushing moss from my dress—*his* dress, woven from shadow and spider silk. The fabric clings to my curves, black as his hair. “Show me.”
---
The tree line looks the same as the day they threw me in. Twisted pines, fog long since burned off. But the air doesn’t prickle with malice anymore. Birds chirp. Actual fucking birds.
Kaelith stays three paces back, hands clenched. I glance at him. “Coming?”
“Can’t.” He gestures to the border. “Guardian’s tether.”
Right. Three hundred years of being the forest’s attack dog probably comes with strings. I step closer to the edge. My bare toes graze the threshold.
Nothing happens.
I look back. Kaelith’s staring at my feet like they hold the secrets of the universe.
One more step.
Sunlight warms my face. The village road lies ahead, dusty and quiet. I could walk home. If that place was ever home.
“Thalia.”
Kaelith’s voice stops me. He’s rigid, face carved from stone. But his eyes—gods, his eyes—are raw. Terrified.
I cross back in a heartbeat, cupping his face. “I’m not leaving.”
He exhales sharply, forehead dropping to mine. “You should.”
“Why?”
“They’ll come. They’ll fear the changes. Fear *you* now.”
I snort. “They’ve always feared me. At least here, I’ve got decent company.”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “You could have… sunlight. Markets. Children.”
“I could have *you*.”
A shudder runs through him. His lips find mine, desperate. I kiss back until we’re both breathless. When he pulls away, his smile is sad. “Think, little witch. Don’t choose a cage.”
---
We find the first offering at dusk—a basket of turnips and wool socks.
“Charming,” I say, toeing the goods. The villagers must’ve noticed the forest’s shift. No more cursed fog, no more livestock deaths. Now they’re courting favor.
Kaelith growls, low and dangerous.
“Easy,” I murmur. “They’re scared.”
“They hurt you.”
“And you didn’t.”
He goes quiet.
I pick up a sock. Knitted with clumsy care. Marta’s work, probably. The same hands that ripped my mother’s necklace off. “They don’t get to rewrite history.”
“What will you do?”
I drop the sock. “Let them stew.”
---
He takes me to the heart of the forest that night. The massive oak where I first touched the golden eggs is in bloom, white flowers glowing like stars.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
Kaelith wraps his arms around me from behind. “You did this.”
“We did.”
He nuzzles my neck. “Stay. Please.”
I turn in his arms. “Trying to convince me?”
“Yes.”
His mouth crashes into mine. We sink into the flowers, his hands everywhere. His touch is different tonight—reverent, almost shy. He peels off my dress like unwrapping a relic.
“Kaelith—”
“Let me,” he rasps. “Let me show you…”
He worships me.
With his mouth, his hands, the cold-burn of his skin. He lingers on every scar, every curve. When he finally slides inside me, it’s with a groan that shakes the petals loose from the branches above.
After, we lie tangled in the blossoms. He traces the bond mark. “This means… forever. In my tongue.”
“Good.”
He stills. “You don’t want time to—”
I kiss him silent. “I want *this*. The moss beds and shadow tea and you hovering while I read. I want the village girls to whisper about the witch who tamed the Reaper. I want *you*, Kaelith. All your centuries, all your silence, all your… *you*.”
His eyes glisten. He opens his mouth, closes it. Swallows.
I press my palm to his chest. “You’re my home.”
---
They come at dawn.
Father Durran leads the mob, clutching his rusted holy symbol. Twenty villagers flank him, pitchforks gleaming.
Kaelith steps in front of me, a living wall.
“Wait,” I say, touching his arm. “Let me.”
He hesitates, then nods.
The mob falters when I emerge. I’ve seen my reflection in the spring—wild curls, glowing bond mark, eyes too old for a girl they once called devil-spawn.
Marta drops her torch. “Thalia?”
“Miss me?”
Father Durran pales. “You—you’re supposed to be dead!”
“Disappointed?”
Kaelith’s growl rattles the trees. The mob stumbles back.
I hold up a hand. “The forest is calm now. The curse is lifted. Go home.”
“But the rituals—”
“Were bullshit.” I step forward. The villagers flinch. “You blamed every bad harvest, every stillborn calf, on some imaginary evil. But the real monster was your own fucking fear.”
Silence.
Then Marta whispers, “We’re sorry.”
I laugh. “No, you’re not. You’re just scared the Reaper will come for you next.”
Kaelith appears at my side, shadows coiling. The mob flees.
---
He builds me a garden.
Shadow vines till the soil. Glowing mushrooms mark the rows. I plant yarrow and lavender, pennyroyal and rue. He watches me work, often knee-deep in dirt himself, white hair tied back with a strip of leather.
“You’re staring,” I say one afternoon.
“You’re… radiant.”
I blush. “Stop.”
He tugs me into his lap, lips grazing my ear. “Never.”
---
The first snow comes early.
We’re curled by the fire when he says it. “You could still go. Before winter locks the passes.”
I set down my book. “You don’t get it, do you?”
He frowns.
“They threw me in here to die. You caught me. Held me. Gave me…” I gesture to the lair—the books, the herbs, the cloak he wove me. “This is my choice. Every day, I choose you.”
His throat works. “Why?”
“Because you see me. Not a witch. Not a sacrifice. *Me*.”
He crushes me to his chest. “Always.”
---
In spring, the forest blooms.
Children dare each other to leave trinkets at the tree line. I collect them sometimes—a wooden frog, a honey cake, a poorly knitted mitten.
Kaelith finds me smiling at the trinkets one evening. “Happy?”
I lean into him. “Yeah. You?”
He turns my face to his. The smile he gives me is slow, warm, brighter than all his glowing sigils combined.
“You’re my light,” he says.
And I am.