Bound by Mystic Roots

Chapter 8 The Price the Forest Does Not Speak Of

The forest did not attack the court.

It surrounded it.

By dawn, roots had crept along the outer walls like thick, dark veins pulsing just beneath pale skin. Their bark was rough and cool to the touch, slick with morning dew that carried the sharp, green scent of crushed ferns and wet earth. Leaves pressed against the stone, whispering in soft, patient sibilance — a thousand tiny voices overlapping, as if the forest knew time itself belonged to it now.

I stood on the balcony, numb, staring at the green horizon that had not been there the night before. The air tasted of salt and resin, heavy enough to coat my tongue.

“They’re not trying to break in,” Luntian said quietly beside me, her breath fogging in the chill.

“No,” I replied. “They’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“For me.”

She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself, the wool rasping against her skin. “I don’t like the way you say that.”

Neither did I.

We retreated to my chambers when the council’s voices began rising again — sharp blame and fear slicing through the corridors like knives. Luntian bolted the door behind us with unnecessary force, the iron latch clanging like a warning.

“I swear,” she muttered, “if one more elder says ‘for the greater good,’ I will bite someone.”

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped me — small and cracked.

She grinned, fierce and fleeting. “There. Still alive.”

Then she sobered, the humor draining from her eyes like water through cracked earth. “Tala… what really happens if you marry him?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Because somewhere between Apo Lina’s scream and Mama’s silence, the truth had settled in my bones like wet clay — heavy, cold, inevitable.

“I don’t think I survive it,” I said softly.

Luntian went still, the color leaching from her cheeks.

“What?”

“The binding isn’t just a vow,” I continued, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a replacement.”

Her face crumpled. “Replacement for what?”

“For what my parents were supposed to become,” I whispered. “For what the forest lost when it claimed them.”

The truth pressed against my ribs, ancient and unyielding.

The forest did not want obedience.

It wanted continuity.

A living conduit — someone to carry its voice in their blood, to bleed when it hungered, to soften its edges so it did not have to devour villages whole or swallow the coast in salt and fury. Someone whose heartbeat would echo the slow, endless pulse of roots beneath the earth.

“And Kael?” Luntian asked carefully, her voice trembling.

“He becomes… anchored,” I said. “Protected. His bloodline spared.”

“At the cost of yours?”

“Yes.”

She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the wooden floor. “Absolutely not.”

She began pacing, furious, her footsteps sharp against the woven mats. “No. No, no, no. You don’t get raised, loved, laughed with, just to be used like this. You’re not a bridge. You’re a person.”

I smiled sadly, the motion pulling at dry lips. “You always say the right things.”

“I mean them,” she snapped, eyes blazing. “And I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

A knock interrupted us.

Kulas strolled in without waiting to be invited, the faint scent of damp leaves and wild honey trailing him like smoke.

“Ah,” he said cheerfully. “You figured it out.”

Luntian grabbed a pillow and hurled it at his head.

He caught it without flinching. “Rude.”

“You knew?” I asked, voice flat.

“Of course,” he replied, tossing the pillow onto the bed. “The forest always eats its caretakers eventually. It’s how it stays alive.”

My stomach twisted, a cold knot of nausea.

“And Apo Lina?”

His grin faded, the mischief dimming like a snuffed candle. “She resisted too long.”

That hurt more than anything else.

Later, Mama came.

She stood in the doorway, smaller somehow than I remembered — the faint scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs clinging to her clothes.

“You know now,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I hoped the forest had learned restraint,” she said quietly, voice cracking on the last word. “And because I didn’t want you to live afraid.”

I crossed the room and hugged her — tight, desperate, like a child again. Her arms closed around me, strong and trembling, the familiar warmth of her skin and the steady thud of her heart against mine.

“I don’t want to disappear,” I whispered into her shoulder, the words muffled against wool.

She held me fiercely, fingers threading through my hair. “Then don’t.”

“But the forest—”

“Can be changed,” she said, voice fierce and low. “But not gently.”

That night, Kael asked to see me.

I refused.

Cowardly, maybe — but if I looked at him now, knowing the truth, I would either break or agree to die.

Neither was acceptable.

As the moon rose, pale and cold, the ground trembled again — a low, bone-deep rumble that rattled the wooden beams and sent dust sifting from the ceiling.

Luntian grabbed my hand, her palm warm and damp. “Tala.”

Beyond the walls, the forest parted.

A path opened — straight and narrow, lined with glowing white flowers that smelled faintly of decay and sweetness.

And from its depths came a voice — not Apo Lina’s.

Older.

Deeper.

It rolled through the night like thunder trapped in roots, carrying the scent of wet earth, old blood, and forgotten offerings.

“Child of roots and blood,” it called. “Come.”

The binding was no longer a choice.

It was a summons.