Bound by Mystic Roots

Chapter 7 The Things We Do Not Say

I avoided Kael for three days.

Not deliberately at first. It began with missed meals, different paths through the court, timing my steps so I would arrive moments after he had left. Then it became intention. Choice. Distance shaped like self-preservation.

It was easier that way.

Because every time I thought of necessary, my chest tightened until breathing felt like work.

The forest was quieter now.

Not calm — never calm — but watchful, as if waiting for me to make a mistake. I felt it when I slept, when I woke, when I passed beneath carved beams and stone arches that had never known roots. It followed me even here.

On the fourth morning, my mother found me in the old practice yard, where the soldiers trained before dawn. I sat on a low wall, watching movements I barely understood.

“You’re hiding,” she said.

“I’m resting,” I replied.

She sat beside me without asking. For a long while, neither of us spoke. It was strange, how silence with her felt heavier than silence with the forest.

“You think he doesn’t want you,” she said at last.

I swallowed. “I think he doesn’t choose me.”

Mama exhaled slowly. “Those are not always the same.”

“They are when you’re the one being married off.”

She flinched.

That hurt me more than anything else.

“I didn’t come here to make you relive what you ran from,” I said quickly. “I just— I need to understand why everyone keeps deciding things for me.”

She turned to me then, eyes bright with something unshed. “Because we are afraid of what happens when you decide for yourself.”

I laughed softly, bitterly. “So was Apo Lina.”

Mama’s hand tightened on the stone.

“You saw her,” she whispered.

“She told me to run.”

Mama closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there were tears she did not let fall.

“She never learned how,” she said.

Before I could ask more, a horn sounded — sharp, urgent.

The yard erupted into motion.

Luntian came running, skirts gathered in her hands. “Tala! The council— they’re calling for you. Now.”

My stomach dropped.

The council chamber was full when I entered. Too full. Soldiers at the doors. Elders seated in rigid rows. Kael stood at the center, expression carefully blank.

Dayang Isara stood beside him.

Close.

Her hand rested lightly on his arm.

I told myself not to feel it. I failed.

“Tala,” an elder said, voice grave. “We have reached a decision.”

I looked at Kael.

He did not look at me.

“The forest grows restless,” the elder continued. “Your presence here has delayed its judgment, but not ended it. The binding must proceed.”

“When?” I asked.

“Three nights from now.”

My breath stuttered.

“That soon?” Luntian blurted from behind me.

“It is mercy,” another elder said. “The forest has already tasted defiance.”

I turned fully to Kael then. “Is this what you want?”

Silence.

Dayang Isara spoke gently. “He carries a burden, Tala. Please understand—”

I laughed.

It came out wrong. Broken.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

Kael finally met my eyes.

Something flickered there — pain, warning, something unspoken.

“I will do what is required,” he said.

Required.

The room tilted.

I left before they could stop me.

I don’t remember how I got to the shore, only that the sound of waves was suddenly everywhere, crashing hard against stone. The North Coast smelled of salt and wind and endings.

I sank to my knees.

I cried the way I hadn’t since I was a child — quietly at first, then with heaving breaths that hurt my ribs. I pressed my hands to my mouth, but the sound still escaped.

I had been chosen all my life.

By the forest. By blood. By fear.

I just hadn’t known how much it would cost to finally want something else.

Footsteps crunched behind me.

I didn’t look up.

“Go away,” I said hoarsely.

He didn’t.

Kael knelt beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. He said nothing. Just stayed.

That undid me.

“I heard you,” I whispered. “Necessary. Required. Duty.”

His voice was rough. “I never meant for you to hear it that way.”

“Then how did you mean it?” I demanded, finally looking at him. “Because it sounded very clear from where I was standing.”

He stared out at the sea. “I meant that if I hesitate, people die. Villages burn. The forest takes what it wants.”

“And what about me?”

Silence.

That was my answer.

I stood abruptly. “You don’t get to stand here and look sorry.”

“Tala—”

“I won’t be your sacrifice,” I said, voice shaking. “Not even if it tears me apart to walk away from you.”

The words hung between us — raw, close to something I couldn’t name aloud.

His breath caught.

I turned away before he could speak — because whatever came next would break me one way or the other.

That night, the forest came back.

Not with force.

With memory.

I dreamed of Apo Lina, standing knee-deep in roots, her hands bound with vines.

“You cannot save everyone,” she said.

“I don’t want to save everyone,” I sobbed. “Just let me choose.”

The vines tightened.

When I woke, there was blood on my palms.

Luntian burst into my room moments later. “Tala—”

The ground shook.

A roar tore through the night — deeper than before, angrier.

From the balcony, I saw it.

The forest advancing.

Not creeping.

Marching.

And at its edge, wrapped in roots and light—

Apo Lina screamed my name.