One: The Circle
The forest was too quiet, no birdsong, no wind. Just the breath of the trees and the dull hum of apprehension in the air.
She stood barefoot in the ritual circle, wrists chained to the carved standing stone behind her. The cold iron cuffs with scratchy rope bindings layered beneath them, just in case. As if they thought she might fight. The villagers had dragged her here at dusk with their faces masked in flower-petal paint, voices low with the kind of reverence that hides fear. No one looked her in the eye, and no one dared speak her name.
She wasn't Ella anymore. She wasn't the healer's daughter. She wasn't the girl with dirt under her nails and fury in her heart. She was the Spring Offering, chosen by lottery, they said. Except it was no secret she'd angered the village council. No secret she'd refused the lord's son. No secret that her bloodline was tainted and too wild. It had made some people nervous.
So now she was here. Chained and waiting. They'd left her a dress: a thin white linen one that clung damply to her skin in the night air. Her hair was loose, tangled from the struggle and a crown of brittle blossoms had been placed on her head, then forgotten. One petal fluttered down as she shifted. She tested the chain again, but it held.
The salt circle glowed faintly where it had been drawn, handfuls thrown with shaking fingers, petals scattered like an apology. There were four stones marking the cardinal points, carved with runes so old no one remembered what they meant, only that they worked. That the forest obeyed. That the wolves obeyed. She'd never seen them, but she'd heard the stories. Every spring, the chosen girl disappeared into the woods. Some came back. Most didn't. The ones who returned came back different. Broken, some whispered. Blessed, others said, but they didn't last long. She didn't care for either word. She wasn't here to surrender, nor was she here to cry. Let the beast come and see the teeth in her smile. Let him learn that some offerings don't break, that they bite. And somewhere out in the dark, something moved. A shape between trees. A breath in the hush. The forest watched. And the night began.
Two: The Arrival
The moon had risen high and it cast a pale light over the clearing, silvery and indifferent, turning every branch into a blade. The forest held its breath, silent and heavy with waiting. Ella had managed to shift her weight, curling her knees beneath her for warmth and leverage. Her arms still ached from being bound to the standing stone behind, but she'd forced herself to stretch, slowly and deliberately, until her shoulders stopped burning and her legs stopped shaking.
The salt circle still glowed faintly, a soft, flickering haze that pulsed in time with something deeper. Ancient and watching. And then, she felt him. She didn't hear or see anything, but somehow she felt a change, perhaps a pressure in the air or a subtle change in the balance of things, like the world had tilted to accommodate his presence. The hairs on her arms lifted and her breath caught. The branches rustled as he stepped into the clearing.
Not a beast, not a man, but something in-between. He moved like smoke and sin, barefoot and shirtless, his body slicked with a sheen of sweat or maybe rain. Runes burned faintly along his chest and down one arm, half-shifted features catching the moonlight: his jaw too sharp, his eyes too bright.
He paused just beyond the edge of the circle, as if measuring something invisible. Ella calmly watched him for a moment, and then with slow, deliberate moves, she stood. The chains clinked softly as she rose to her full height, her spine straight, head held high. The crown of wilted flowers were still tangled in her dark hair. Her linen shift clung to her, nearly translucent in the moonlight dew, but her gaze was unflinching.
He froze, and for a heartbeat the predator looked uncertain. She was supposed to be crumpled. Shaking and begging for release back to her family, not standing tall like a threat wrapped in silk. Their eyes met, amber on green. Feral heat met human steel.
He tilted his head, studying her. "You're not what I expected," he said stepping around the salt circle. He had a slight lisp, his teeth too large for his mouth.
Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but steady. "Good."
He circled the salt once, slow and silent, as though considering what his next move should be. "Most of them weep," he said, voice low and rough. "You're the first to stand."
"I don't kneel for monsters," she replied, sounding braver than she felt in that moment.
He gave a sound between a laugh and a growl. "You think I'm the monster?" His amber eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight.
A beat. She didn't flinch. "You're here to fuck the spring into bloom," she said coolly. "Tell me that's not monstrous."
He stepped closer. The circle hissed faintly but didn't stop him: a single foot landed just inside the line of salt, deliberate. "I'm here," he said, "because you were promised to me." His tone shifted then, softer, lower. Almost reverent. "You're mine, offering."
That word curled around her spine like smoke. Her stomach flipped, half revulsion, half... something else.
"You don't seem sure of that," she said.
His gaze sharpened. "Why?" He took another step closer.
"You haven't touched me yet."
The silence that followed was electric. His eyes dragged over her, slow and consuming, taking in every inch of her: the curve of her hips beneath the thin linen, the rise of her breasts as she breathed, the pale column of her throat bared in defiance.
