The witch of the forest, p.16
The Witch of the Forest, page 16
She’s not watching. I tell myself. She’s probably stargazing. Or communing with a willow spirit. Or anything other than—
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s watching.
Arms folded, chin resting on one knee, eyes absolutely fixed on me with zero shame and enough amusement to make my soul detach.
“Well?” she says, voice light, almost challenging.
I flounder. “Um. I’m gonna... get out.”
Her smile widens. “Okay. Go on then.”
There’s a long pause where I try—desperately—to wordlessly communicate the gravity of this situation with my expression alone. My eyebrows are working overtime.
She blinks. “What?”
“I’m—” I gesture to myself in the water, “—naked.”
“Yes, Sol. I’m aware.”
“And you’re still looking.”
“Are you bashful?” she asks, voice all mock innocence.
“Yes! I absolutely am,” I say, voice cracking like a cursed lute string. “Stop torturing me!”
She laughs, and gods help me, it’s the kind of sound that could undo kingdoms. “Alright, alright,” she says, finally relenting. She closes her eyes and even lifts a hand dramatically. “There. No peeking. Go on, precious.”
I edge toward the stones and rise, carefully turning so she’s got nothing but a view of my spine, shoulders stiff with tension. I grab my towel and wrap it around myself like it’s a full suit of armor.
Just as I reach for my tunic, I hear her say, casual and almost too quiet: “You have nothing to be bashful of, by the way.”
I choke on absolutely nothing.
My foot catches on the edge of the stone, and I nearly trip, saving myself by clinging to a branch that slaps me in the face on the way down. I scramble to get my boots, my shirt, my soul.
“Goodnight!” I shout, voice pitched embarrassingly high.
“Sleep well, sunshine,” she calls after me, smugness radiating like moonlight.
I don’t stop until I’ve made it halfway up the stairs.
And even then, I can still feel the heat on my face and the echo of her words burning in my ears.
Fates help me—I’m doomed.
I AM not getting any sleep tonight.
I’m sprawled on top of the covers, wearing nothing but my pants, arms flung out like I’ve just been struck down by the gods. Which—realistically—might actually be the case.
The room is too warm. Or maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m too warm, inside and out, because my brain is on fire and my soul is short-circuiting.
I stare up at the ceiling, willing the beams to crack open and drop a reasonable answer on my chest.
What the hell was that?
I mean—I hugged her. Naked. While she was naked. In a hot spring. That’s already too many variables for my brain to process.
But then she said she was enjoying my company.
Thorne. Thorne.
The same Thorne who once hit me with a branch because I was humming too loudly.
And now she’s smiling at me. Flirting. Practically glowing under the moonlight with those marks all over her skin and that effortless confidence and I—
I groan, throwing my arm over my eyes. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with this.
Was she suggesting she wanted something more?
She asked me what I thought of her. Not in the casual “am I annoying?” kind of way but like—really asked. Like she wanted me to see her.
And I—I choked. Because of course I did.
Did I ruin any chance I had? No. That can’t be it. She didn’t seem disappointed. Just...
Calm. Peaceful. Like she’d made her peace with something. Tonight is probably my last night to just be me.
Her words slam back into my chest like a battering ram. Wait—wait, is that why she asked what I thought of her? Is this... is she thinking of this as her last night of freedom?
A one night thing?
No.
No no no. Don’t think like that. She’s not that kind of person. She’s not—
Or is she?
I mean, she’s confident. She’s bold. She literally sauntered out of one hot spring into mine completely naked like she was taking a stroll through the forest.
What if she is that kind of person?
What if she wanted something—even just for tonight?
And I—
Gods, what would I even say? Yes? Like some awkward little deerling blinking in the moonlight?
I flip onto my side, punch the pillow, immediately regret it, and flop onto my back again.
I should have said something. I should have told her how I felt, really. That it’s not just a crush. That I think about her more than I breathe lately. That she’s this quiet storm I can’t help but walk into again and again just to see what it feels like.
But what if I misread everything?
What if I say the wrong thing and she pulls away and it’s awkward and we still have days of travel and then political fallout and then a war, probably?
I groan again, louder this time.
This is agony.
This is worse than when I accidentally drank an entire love potion vial trying to identify it and ended up romantically obsessed with my own reflection for six hours.
And now I’m lying here, warm and twitchy and frustrated, trying not to think about the way her markings lit up in the water like constellations on her skin. Trying not to think about how close she was. About the way she laughed. About the way she looked at me.
I exhale and toss an arm over my eyes again.
Nope. Sleep is a myth.
Tonight, I spiral. So I get up and walk around... and keep walking.
She’s probably asleep. That’s what I keep telling myself as I pace the length of my room for the fourth time in five minutes.
But the thing is—I have to know.
I can’t do this—this spiraling half-existence where I just assume things and play the polite little sunshine human witch who never says what he actually wants.
So I move to the door. Hand on the handle. One deep breath.
And I open it.
Only to freeze, mouth parting in surprise.
Thorne is standing there in the hallway, not even a meter away, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes locked on Caelum’s door like it’s personally offended her.
“Thorne?” I manage, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.
She startles slightly, her eyes snapping to mine as she turns. “Oh—sorry. Did I wake you?” She’s dressed—barely. A soft robe clings to her shoulders, falling open just enough at the legs to make my mouth go dry. Her damp curls are slowly curling back into place, framing her face like wild ivy, and the glow from the hallway lanterns dances along the subtle hue of her dark skin. The purple from before has mostly faded, her markings more subtle now.
Gods. She looks like a dream I’m definitely not qualified to have.
I blink. “I... didn’t even know you were out here. Are you okay?”
Her gaze turns back on Caelum’s door for a beat longer before she exhales slowly, head dipping like it’s suddenly too heavy to carry.
“No,” she admits. Just like that. No sass. No dodging. Just raw honesty. “I’m not.”
Something clenches in my chest.
I hesitate only for a second before I gesture to my room. “Do you want to... come in? Sit? Talk about it?”
She flicks her eyes toward the door, then back to Caelum’s, then back to me. For a moment, she looks like she might say no. That she might disappear back down the hall and leave me standing here trying not to remember the feel of her pressed to my chest in the water.
But then—she nods.
A soft, tired exhale escapes her. “Yeah... okay.”
I step aside as she slips past me into the room, and it’s all I can do not to stare. She doesn’t move like she’s carrying power tonight. She moves like she’s carrying grief.
She doesn’t head for one of the chairs by the window. She doesn’t even hesitate like she might. Instead, she sits on the edge of my bed. Carefully, deliberately. And then—gods help me—she picks up her legs and tucks them under her, cross-legged and relaxed like this is her room, her space, her bed.
Her robe—white, damp, and thinner than anything holy—clings in all the ways it shouldn’t. The moonlight filters in through the window behind her, highlighting the lines of her legs and the slight shimmer on her shoulders where droplets of water still cling. One strap of the robe slips slightly off her shoulder, and I’m just—
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Kill me.
Just right here. Strike me down, gods. Do it.
I blink rapidly and tear my gaze away, choosing the safest patch of wall I can find to focus on as I sit down beside her—close, but not too close. Far enough that I won’t combust.
I clear my throat and force my voice to stay level. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers are curled into the fabric of the robe at her knees. Her lips are parted, like the words are already on her tongue but just won’t come out yet.
Finally, she speaks.
“I want to tell you about Aeralis.”
I look at her, brows tugging together. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” she says quickly. Her eyes dart to mine, then fall again. “You deserve to know.”
I nod, quietly. And I wait.
She exhales and glances at her lap, voice soft, almost too low to hear. “I enlisted to be a guard when I was sixteen. It was... stupid. Reckless. I just wanted to feel like I was doing something. I didn’t expect to be any good at it. But I was.” She smiles bitterly. “During training, I met him. Aeralis. He was charming in the way that made you feel like he’d seen right through your armor—literal and emotional. He knew exactly what to say. Called me out on my sass and ego.” She huffs. “I liked the challenge.” I nod slowly, trying to piece together the man who’d left such an imprint on her. One that she still carries in her bones like a shadow. Her voice drops again. “We weren’t supposed to be involved. Guards aren’t allowed to form personal relationships without permission from the King. But Aeralis...” Her fingers tighten again. “He was the son of the King’s oldest friend. One of his most trusted commanders.”
“So the King gave permission?” I ask gently.
She lets out a short, mirthless laugh. “He didn’t even question it. Aeralis asked. The King said yes. I didn’t even know a request had been made on my behalf.”
That... hits wrong.
I blink, slow. “Wait. Are you saying... was the relationship something you wanted?”
Her silence answers first.
Her hands are shaking. Just barely. But enough for me to see it.
She grips her own arms, holding herself like she might fall apart if she lets go. Her voice is tight when she finally says it.
“No,” she whispers. “It really wasn’t.” She’s quiet for a moment, and I don’t push. Her eyes are distant, trained somewhere beyond the room, beyond the walls. I get the sense that she’s not here right now—she’s back there. Wherever there is. “When he first told me he’d gotten permission,” she starts, voice low and tight, “I was still sixteen. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I told him that. But he kept... courting me. Kept showing up. Small gifts. Training advice. Flirting every damn day.” She scoffs. “He made it seem like it was all harmless. Like I was just being difficult.” I keep my eyes on her, careful not to interrupt.
“I eventually gave in. It was many months later, but I did. Said I’d try it. But I told him there were no promises.” She shakes her head. “Should’ve known that wasn’t enough for someone like him.”
My stomach churns at the thought. “So how did that... turn into getting engaged?”
She flinches. Just slightly. “There was a point in our relationship,” she says slowly, “right before I turned eighteen. I’d had enough. He’d changed. No—he’d revealed who he really was. Cowardly. Arrogant. Abusive. He’d sit back when we were on the field. Order others around. Never got his hands dirty.” Her jaw tightens. “We had a raid. A bandit group we’d been chasing for months. Dangerous. Smart. We finally caught them. It was a hard fight. And Aeralis?” She looks at me, her eyes blazing now. “He was nowhere. Only showed up when it was already over—literally the most useless witch I've ever met.”
I blink. “Wait. He was a witch?”
She nods. “A strong one. Elemental spells, mostly. But no heart for battle. Just pretty words and charm. And ambition. Gods, the ambition.”
I feel a tight knot in my chest as I piece together what she’s not saying yet. “So what happened?” I ask gently.
Her hands are still in her lap, fingers twisting around the edge of her robe.
“The king was pleased. We’d finally captured the group. He threw a celebration for the entire team that night. Formal dinner. We were all there—bruised, exhausted, but proud.” Her voice cracks a little. “I planned to end things that night. I was done. I didn’t care if it meant getting discharged or dishonored. I couldn’t do it anymore.” She swallows hard. “But before I could even open my mouth, Aeralis stood up. In front of the entire table. The King. The court. My unit. And he announced our engagement.” I freeze. Her eyes flick to me, a bitter smile on her lips. “Didn’t even ask me. Just announced it. Said it was a surprise. Said he wanted it to be a moment to remember. The King clapped first. Congratulated him. Blessed the match immediately.” I feel sick. Thorne exhales, like the memory is a weight she can’t quite put down. “He said the wedding would be held the week after the prince’s own ceremony. And just like that... I was engaged.”
There’s a long silence. Just the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears and the creak of the wooden wall as it settles in the quiet night.
“Thorne...” I murmur, but I don’t know what else to say.
Because there’s so much to say—and none of it would be enough.
She just looks away again, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t sleep for days after that.” I don’t speak. I don’t breathe for a second. She’s still looking away from me, like if she looks at me now, it’ll shatter whatever delicate piece of her she’s finally managed to place on the table. “I never really let him close,” she says at last, the words sounding like they’re pulled from a wound. “Not... really.” I tilt my head, confused but quiet. She sees it, sees the question forming in my eyes. “It’s a nymph thing,” she says, giving a tired little shrug. “We connect ourselves to nature. Our bodies, our magic, our minds—they’re all tuned to it. It’s... hard to be intimate when you’re disconnected from that. When you’re surrounded by stone instead of stars. When there’s no wind in the leaves or moonlight on your skin.” She exhales and glances at the floor. “It just feels wrong. Hollow.”
Oh.
My brain—treacherous, stupid brain—tries not to fill in the gaps too quickly, but suddenly there’s this image flashing through my head of her, bare and beautiful, in the heart of a moonlit forest. Surrounded by moss and flowers and stars and—
I don’t react. Somehow. Somehow I keep my face entirely still, even though I’m almost positive my ears are now the color of boiled tomatoes.
“So,” I say, incredibly delicately, “what you’re saying is... nymphs prefer to... be with someone in the middle of a grove. Not in a stone castle.”
I’m proud of myself. Really. My voice didn’t even crack once.
But she nods, completely deadpan, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And now I am dying.
“I wasn’t connected that night,” she says. Her voice goes quiet again, the shift immediate. Her jaw tightens as she stares ahead. “In the king’s tower. When Aeralis came to me after the announcement.” She doesn’t say the rest. She doesn’t have to. My chest goes tight. “I told him I wasn’t accepting his proposal. That I didn’t want any part of it. That he’d made me into a joke in front of the court.” She swallows, hard. “He didn’t like that.”
I don’t ask what he said. Or what he did.
I know.
Her hands are clenched in the fabric of her robe, knuckles white. Her voice is strained when she adds, “He threatened to have me stripped of my role, imprisoned for treason. Told me the King had already signed the contract. That if I didn’t comply, I’d be dishonoring the King’s wishes. The kingdom.” Her fingers tighten. “I should’ve stabbed him. I wanted to. I think I would’ve if I hadn’t been so...”
She trails off.
Violated. That’s the word she won’t say.
I feel something white-hot boil in my stomach. I’ve never felt it before. Not like this.
I try to speak, and my voice comes out a little too sharp. “Thorne... he took advantage of you.”
She hesitates. Then, slowly—like it hurts just to admit it—she nods once.
There’s a silence between us. One that thrums with anger and grief and guilt that doesn’t belong to her but has been living in her skin for too long.
“I shouldn’t’ve hugged you earlier,” I say quietly. “Without permission. That wasn’t fair.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “That’s not the same.”
“It’s still—”
“It’s not the same,” she says firmly, cutting me off. “You were kind. He wasn’t.”
And just like that, she looks away again, and I realize—
She doesn’t flinch when I’m near her.
She’s not afraid of me.
She says it like it’s obvious. Like I should just accept the difference and move on. But I don’t want to just accept it. I want to understand it.
Because it’s not just what he did that’s eating me alive—it’s that I didn’t know. That I didn’t see it. I thought she was strong because she’s sharp, quick, doesn’t let people in. But that wasn’t strength, not really.
That was survival.
And now, she’s here. Sitting on my bed. Telling me things I know damn well she’s probably never told anyone.
Her fingers fidget in her lap. Her eyes are turned slightly away again, as if she can’t quite look at me anymore now that everything’s been said aloud. And I hate that. I hate the idea that even after surviving all that, she thinks she has to sit here quietly and shrink under the weight of it.
