Chapter 10 Isolde's Choice
I don't speak right away.
Neither does Alaric.
The silence between us isn't empty, it's crowded with everything he's just given me. Immortality. Loss. A woman who loved him enough to leave. My mind keeps circling the same thought, like it's afraid to land.
"She chose," I finally say.
My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Too steady. Too calm for what's breaking open in my chest.
Alaric nods once. His grip on my hand hasn't loosened, but it hasn't tightened either. Like he's letting me decide whether to stay connected.
"Yes," he says. "She chose."
I pull my hand back, not because I want distance, but because I need to breathe.
"Tell me," I say. "All of it. Not the version written in the margins. Not the legend. The truth."
His throat moves as he swallows.
"You may hate me by the end," he says quietly.
"I won't," I reply, before I can stop myself.
He looks at me then, really looks at me, like he's trying to decide if that promise will hurt him later.
"It was winter," he begins. "The kind that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. The village had already decided what she was."
"A witch," I say.
"Yes." His mouth curves bitterly. "Or a heretic. Or a liar. The name didn't matter. Only the fear did."
I lean back in my chair, letting his voice carry me.
"They said she cursed the livestock," he continued. "That she lured men into the forest. That she consorted with something unnatural."
"With you," I murmur.
He nods.
"She never denied loving me," he says. "Not even when it would have saved her."
My chest tightens. "That doesn't sound like someone afraid."
"She wasn't afraid of dying," Alaric says. "She was afraid of staying."
He stands abruptly, pacing the narrow space between shelves. I track his movement, the way his hands flex as if remembering ropes that aren't there.
"They planned an execution," he says. "Public. Loud. Something to reassure themselves they were safe."
"And you let it happen?" The question slips out sharper than I intend.
He stops pacing.
"No," he says firmly. "I helped her disappear."
I blink. "You what?"
"The execution was staged," he says. "The fire. The crowd. The body they thought they saw."
My pulse quickens. "Then whose "
"No one's," he interrupts. "Ashes. Clothes. A trick taught to me by someone who owed me a favor centuries before."
I stare at him, trying to reconcile this with the image burned into the records.
"And Isolde?" I ask. "Where was she?"
"She was already gone," he says softly. "By the time the flames rose, she was miles away."
Relief and heartbreak crash into each other inside me.
"She lived," I whisper.
"Yes."
"Without you."
His silence answers that.
"Did she leave a letter?" I ask.
He nods slowly. "Several."
"The ones in the margins," I say.
"Yes."
My hands curl into fists. "She wanted to be heard."
"She wanted to be remembered on her own terms," he corrects. "Not as a cautionary tale."
I think of the words I chose. Remember that.
"She loved you," I say.
"She did," he agrees. "Enough to walk away."
I shake my head. "That's not walking away. That's a sacrifice."
Alaric's laugh is short and humorless. "It felt like abandonment."
"Because you were left behind."
"Yes."
I stand and move closer to him. He doesn't step back.
"She didn't want to watch everyone she loved die," I say, my voice quiet. "Including you."
He closes his eyes.
"She told me," he says, "that loving me meant living in constant grief. That every friendship would become a countdown. That even joy would feel borrowed."
I swallow. The words land too close to home.
"She said she wanted a life that could end," he continued. "Not an eternity defined by loss."
I don't know what to say to that. There is no argument that doesn't feel cruel.
"So she vanished," I say.
"Yes."
"And you waited."
He opens his eyes again. "I did."
"For what?" I ask.
His gaze meets mine. "For her. Or for the end. I stopped knowing the difference."
The honesty in his voice makes my chest ache.
"She never came back?" I ask.
"No," he says. "But she wrote. For a time."
My breath catches. "After her death."
"Yes."
I think of the letter signed in her name. The impossible date.
"She lived somewhere quiet," he says. "Changed her name. I love other people, I think. I hope."
"That hurts," I say.
"It does," he agrees.
We stand there, the space between us charged with shared grief for a woman I never met but somehow know.
"She wasn't running from you," I say slowly. "She was running toward herself."
Alaric studies me. "You sound like her."
The words settle heavily between us.
"I don't want to," I say.
"Sounds like her?"
"No," I whisper. "Become her."
His expression softens. "You're not."
"How do you know?" I ask.
"Because you're still here," he says. "Asking questions."
I laugh weakly. "That doesn't feel like proof."
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
"Mireya," he says, and the way he says my name feels like a hand on my spine. "You're allowed to leave. You're allowed to choose yourself."
The kindness in that hurts more than anything else he's said.
"And you?" I ask. "What do you choose?"
He hesitates. Just for a second.
"I choose the truth," he says. "Even if it costs me."
My throat tightens. "You're still waiting, aren't you?"
His jaw clenches. "I never stopped."
The admission hits me harder than I expect. Not because of Isolde but because of what it means for me.
I look at him, really look at him, and realize the ache in my chest isn't just empathy.
It's longing.
It's fear.
It's recognition.
And with a quiet, terrifying clarity, Mireya realizes she's falling in love.