I couldn't sleep the night before they arrived.
The air feels too quiet, like it's waiting for something to happen.
So, I sit by the fire with my grandmother's book on my lap, tracing the worn leather cover with my fingers. This isn't just any old healer's journal. It's a map of knowledge and warnings, filled with pieces of something much bigger than I ever thought I'd deal with. And it's starting to wake up.
As I flip through the pages, I see more than just recipes and drawings. The ink starts to shift and twist, forming images and symbols that seem familiar. Some pages warm under my fingertips while others are cold and unyielding, like a door that won't budge.
I whisper, "What are you?"
The book doesn't reply, but something inside me does.
Yours.
Once it's daybreak, I know what I have to do.
If I'm going to be put on display, I want to hear it straight from the wolves.
So I dress simply—a linen top, leather belt, and a dark skirt smudged with ash from the fire. My boots are old but sturdy, tightly laced. I braid my hair down my back because today's not about looking soft.
The village is anxious and quiet.
Mothers pull their kids inside when they see me. The baker's wife slams her windows shut. A few fieldhands nod at me, but nobody meets my eyes.
Only Mara is waiting for me at the path's edge.
"They're already gathering," she says. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do."
The elders are gathered in the long hall, a rough building dug into the hillside with small windows and thick stone walls. I push the door open without knocking, letting the creak announce my arrival.
There are six of them at the table, cloaks dark as crows. I recognize them all: Elder Myrin, Elder Harreth, old Elna with her cloudy left eye, and three more who've led the village forever. They look worn out, like old fruit.
They look up when I enter, and silence falls over the room.
Elder Myrin speaks first. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should they," I reply, stepping inside. "Yet here we both are."
Elder Elna sighs. "You know what's written."
"I know what you twisted it into," I counter. "The treaty was supposed to mean balance. Peace in exchange for cooperation. A bride only if the line failed and the curse reignited. You didn't say what would happen if that time came."
Harreth leans forward, fingers together. "It's not for us to decide. The magic chooses."
I let out a harsh laugh. "You mean the Shadow Court chooses. And you let them."
"You've always been close to the border," Myrin says quietly. "Too close. The forest marked you, even before this power came."
"And what should I have done?" I ask, moving closer. "Burn it away? Cut out what you couldn't explain?"
No one answers.
So, I keep going.
"You knew this could happen. You saw the mark. You watched what I could do, and you said nothing. You let me think I was cursed."
"You're not cursed," Elna says, her tone gentle but firm. "You were chosen."
Those words hit me hard.
I shake my head. "That's just a nice way of saying sacrifice."
I leave before they can say anything else. Before I lose it.
The sun is rising now, pale and watching. A breeze lifts my braid as I stand outside the long hall, taking in the air of smoke, dew, and iron.
I catch their scent before I see them.
The delegation.
They come in like a storm. Quiet, regal, and wrong.
The first thing I hear is the hoofbeats, slow and steady. Not soldiers, but something that takes its time. Their horses are huge, with shiny black coats and eyes like smooth stone. The riders are cloaked in gray and silver, their faces hidden behind half-masks shaped like old beasts: wolves, stags, dragons.
Magic oozes off them.
The crowd gathers without being told. We're drawn in by what they are: old, dangerous, otherworldly.
Leading the group is a woman in a gown that shifts between silver and green as she walks. Her hair is white, laced with thorns. Her gaze sweeps across the village, and when she sees me, the mark on my wrist flares.
Then again, like a heartbeat responding to another.
She speaks in a voice that sounds like bells in water. We've come as promised. A bride will be chosen, and the balance will be restored."
Myrin bows his head. "The treaty is honored."
She steps closer, narrowing the gap between us. Her eyes, light green with gold edges, look almost kind.
"It's not politics that decides the bride," she says, and I hear the formality in her tone. "It's the soul-thread. The bond that was formed before either kingdom took a breath."
I didn't flinch when she raised her hand.
But I do when the mark on my wrist flares, light burning my sleeve like fire.
The crowd gasps. Someone drops a basket. The horses whicker.
The woman's gaze stays locked on mine.
"It's her," she says softly. "The bond sings loudest through her."
A roar fills my ears, like wind, wings, and every no I've ever swallowed.
"No."
I say it aloud. I step back.
"No, you don't get to…"
Someone grabs my arms. Not rough or aggressive, but firm.
Myrin's voice breaks through the noise. "She will go willingly."
I turn around. "I won't!"
The crowd makes way as Mara bursts through, wild-eyed and furious. "She hasn't even been asked! You said we'd have time…"
But time is something we've run out of.
The Shadow woman lifts a silver chain, and a glowing rune hangs from it, the same symbol in my grandmother's book.
Mine, the magic says.
Yours, the air replies.
They bind my hands, not with rope, but with strands of light that hum against my skin. They call it honor, but it feels more like a trap.
The last thing I see before they pull me into the carriage is Mara's furious, helpless face.
And then the door slams shut.
And the forest starts to move.