Chapter 31

After a day that lasted too long, night fell too quickly.

The sun, sensing what waited in the dark, chose not to linger. The sky drained from grey to blue to a dense, enclosing black in minutes rather than hours. Edmund stood at the centre of the room as the last line of daylight slipped away. The cottage felt smaller than ever, a frail shell daring to hold against the gathering outside.

Agnes redrew the chalk circle with unsteady hands. She moved more slowly than before. Will and Malcolm watched the windows, tense, as though the glass might soften and give way, allowing entry. The air hummed with a low vibration that made Edmund’s teeth ache.

Agnes straightened, wiping chalk dust from her fingers, and met Edmund’s worried gaze.

“Once I begin the fourth thread, you can’t stop. If you falter, if you hesitate…”

“It takes me,” Edmund said.

She nodded.

“Completely.”

Will set the lantern beside the chalk line. Its flame wavered, fighting against the darkness it was meant to hold back. Malcolm leaned close.

“We’re with you. Right to the end.”

Edmund inhaled deeply, steadying himself.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Agnes gestured for him to sit, and he lowered himself slowly into the chair. His muscles shook, already aware of what was to come, and the strain that would incur.

As Agnes placed her hands at his temples, the emptiness within tightened in readiness. The room stilled.

She began.

The chant was slower this time. No blade was involved. Only a summoning drawn toward the parts of Edmund’s mind the forest had pushed hardest against. The grief. The refusal. The ache that would not yield. That he was unable to release.

His vision cracked, first at the edges, then entirely.

The world twisted.

###

He was in the forest. This was no memory. This was reality. Truth.

Trees surrounded him, endless pillars of dark and ancient wood. The ground moved beneath his feet, warm and yielding, alive in a way that turned his stomach. A path lay ahead, unlit yet unmistakable, spurring him on.

A voice drifted through the branches.

Edmund.

He clenched his jaw. Shook his head.

Another voice joined it.

Come home.

Then another.

You chose this.

Edmund stepped backwards, but the forest moved with him. Roots slid through the soil. Branches bent. The canopy lowered, enclosing.

Don’t fight what you asked for, it whispered. Don’t fight what you desire.

“I don’t want you,” Edmund retorted, though his certainty faltered.

The forest laughed. It sounded like timber splitting.

Then why do you keep returning?

He opened his mouth to deny it. And stopped. He couldn’t deny that he had returned, again and again. He was drawn by the silence. By the stillness. By promises of rest and reprieve and forgiveness.

Agnes’s voice cut through the dark, sharp and urgent.

“This is its last shelter inside you. Name what it stole.”

Edmund’s voice shook.

“My son.”

The forest recoiled.

He stands here.

A small, familiar shape stepped from between the trees. The boy faced him, coat half‑zipped, hair falling into his eyes. He smiled.

Edmund was suddenly breathless, the air fleeing.

“I don’t accept you,” he gasped.

The boy reached out.

“Dad, please.”

“NO!“

He tried to twist away, but the forest buckled, its trunks twisting and its branches cracking. The face flickered. The eyes darkened. The skin split like rotting bark.

Edmund stood his ground.

“You are not him,” he said. “You never were.”

The false smile warped. The thing beneath leaned forward, limbs stretching out to him like grasping roots.

Then choose, it urged. Choose not to hurt anymore.

Edmund closed his eyes. The ache rose, immediate and raw. He didn’t resist it. He couldn’t.

“I choose him,” he said quietly. “I choose my grief. I choose the pain. It was mine, and I deserve it. I need it. It’s all I have left of him. It’s not yours.”

The forest screamed. The canopy convulsed. Roots slammed up through the soil. The creature lunged, claws tearing the air.

Agnes’s voice cried out, distant, almost lost.

“Now, Edmund. Now.”

His insides writhed, panicked. Edmund gathered the ache. Held onto it. Let it fill him until nothing else remained. Then he spoke the final refusal, the words there without thinking.

“I RELEASE YOU.”

The forest froze, and it felt as if everything outside of its vast boundary had ceased to be. Then, a violent tremor split the world apart.

The creature broke into fragments of root and dust and shadow. The ground cracked. The forest howled, ancient and furious, a decayed, dismal cry.

Darkness fell.

###

Voices reached him, distant at first, then close.

Malcolm: “Edmund. Stay with us.”

Will: “Agnes, is he…?

“He’s alive,” Agnes murmured. “Just.”

Edmund opened his eyes.

The cottage ceiling stared down at him, intact. The chalk circle was destroyed. The bowl lay overturned. The lantern was shattered.

And the hollow was gone.

It was not simply quiet. It was not buried. It was gone. A sob tore from him, unrestrained.

“You did it,” said Malcolm, gripping his hand.

Agnes slid down the wall, spent.

“The Binding is broken.”

Will exhaled, shaky.

“So, it can’t take him now?”

Agnes closed her eyes.

“Not while he chooses his own life.”

Edmund wept harder, the unbearable relief of holding only his grief again overwhelming him. Agnes moved to kneel beside him, her movements pained.

“Rest. The forest will not reach for you tonight.”

Edmund turned his head toward the window. The trees stood still. Silent. Watching, but no longer pulling.

And for the first time since arriving in Black Thickett…

He felt something close to freedom.

It was fragile. Uncertain.

And his.