THE VIOLET DAWN
The world dissolved into liquid amethyst.
Julian felt his body unraveling at the seams—not from pain, but from Sabrina's hands in his, their fingers fused by crackling energy that tasted like wild blackberries and lightning. The cavern's bones disintegrated around them, becoming a storm of petals that caught fire midair without burning.
"Look at me," Sabrina begged, her voice echoing between worlds.
Julian forced his eyes open.
Sabrina was made of stars.
Violet constellations pulsed beneath her skin, mapping the places he'd kissed, the scars he'd traced with reverent fingers. The roots that had bound her now bloomed—tiny white flowers bursting from their bark, perfuming the air with the scent of their first night together—rain-soaked linen and shared breath.
The grandmother's shriek shattered the moment.
"You foolish girl! You'll kill them all!"
Sabrina smiled—that same reckless smile she'd worn when Julian first saw her standing barefoot in the willow grove.
"No," she whispered. "Just you."
She pulled Julian closer, their chests nearly touching. The place where her heart should beat was now a void of living light, and Julian understood with sudden, aching clarity:
She was hollowing herself out to make room for him.
THE JOINING
The grandmother lunged, her bark-fingers splintering into claws—
—and Julian moved without thought.
He wrapped his arms around Sabrina, spinning them so his back took the blow. The claws pierced deep, but he barely felt it. Not when Sabrina's lips found the hollow of his throat, not when she breathed into him the same way she had in the well—
"Take it," she gasped against his skin. "Take everything."
Power detonated between them.
Julian saw:
— Sabrina at seven, planting a willow sapling over a shallow grave
— His father as a boy, weeping as roots coiled around his ankles
— Their first real kiss under last autumn's harvest moon, when Sabrina bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and whispered "Mine" like a vow
The visions solidified into a single truth:
The curse had always been a love story.
A Whitfield and a Thorne, bound not by hate, but by the first Sabrina's grief when her Thorne lover betrayed her. A cycle of sacrifice and spite, repeating through centuries.
Until now.
Until them.
THE UNBINDING
Julian pressed his forehead to Sabrina's, their breath mingling.
"Together," he rasped.
Her eyes—all violet light now—widened. "Julian, no—"
He didn't let her finish.
Julian slammed their joined hands into the grandmother's chest.
The scream that followed was not human, not tree, but something older. The grandmother's bark-body fissured, golden sap bubbling from the cracks as she clawed at them.
"You burn with her?!" she howled. "You choose the pyre?!"
Julian kissed Sabrina deeply, tasting blood and electricity.
"I choose her."
Light erupted.
THE AFTERMATH
When the world reassembled, Julian was on his knees in the willow grove, Sabrina cradled against him. Dawn bled through the branches, painting her face in pinks and golds—alive, alive, alive.
Her hand trembled as she touched his cheek. "You idiot," she whispered. "You glorious, reckless idiot."
Behind them, the grand willow splintered down the middle, its trunk hollowed out like a spent candle. The townspeople would find Silas Whitfield at its base come noon, his body grown through with fresh saplings, his mouth full of white petals.
But for now, there was only this:
Sabrina's lips, warm and real.
The first true sunrise over Shadowmere in 200 years.
And Julian's voice, rough with devotion:
"Always you."