Cursed To Be His

Talia pressed the tip of her pen to the page and waited for the words to come. They didn’t. They never did when it was her Aunt Ana, i.e. her new therapist, who insisted she “express her internal thoughts,” as if she actually believed this would solve all her problems. It wouldn’t, but she would try, if only to prove to Ana that it was pointless. The pen hovered uselessly above the paper, and she exhaled sharply through her nose, muttering something unflattering about landscapes and swamps and therapists who assigned homework like she was still thirteen and fragile.

Still, she forced herself to write.

My name is Talia Morgan. Except it isn’t. Not anymore.

The ink bled into the page, the letters uneven, and she just stared at the words for a moment, then continued.

I’m twenty-three years old, and I am a human... Unfortunately.

The word human looked wrong. It always did. Like she was wearing someone else’s skin and pretending it fit. She tapped the pen against the margin, then pushed on while letting out a heavy sigh, puffing out her cheeks as she blew through her lips.

I live in Blackwood territory now. Elara and Kaelan took me in when I was thirteen, after the Matchmaker and Circe tried to kill me. Or, well… after it tried to turn me into a magical battery and then kill me.

Her lips twitched despite herself. Sarcasm was easier than honesty. Sarcasm didn’t hurt, but honesty did.

My parents died when I was young. I don’t remember much. Just flashes really, like my mother’s hair, my father’s laugh, the smell of home... And then nothing. My uncle said it was rogues. I believed him. I still do, I guess.

Her stomach tightened, but she kept writing.

He sent me to the Matchmaker when I was thirteen. Said I was too much of a problem child for him to raise, and it was for my own good. But then again, he also said I’d be safe there. He forgot to mention the part where I was handed over to a bat shit crazy witch with an even crazier plan.

Her hand trembled. She set the pen down and flexed her fingers until the shaking stopped. She didn’t need to write the next part. She remembered it too clearly, the cold stone floor beneath her, the burning in her veins, the magic tearing through her like wildfire, the screaming that might have been hers or someone else’s. The moment she realised she wasn’t meant to survive.

She swallowed hard and picked up the pen again.

I was meant to create a new line of Elders by being a vessel, or more accurately, a sacrifice. A temporary container for magic that would kill me once the chosen ones ascended. The moment she chose me, I was cursed. How lucky was I?

The truth settled heavily in her chest, familiar and unwelcome.

But I didn’t die. Elara and Kaelan saved me. They tore me out of that place and brought me to their home. My home now, I guess.

Her chest tightened, not painfully, but in that strange, warm way she still wasn’t used to.

Elara’s parents, Saphira and Nikolas, became my grandparents, and they are amazing. They are the ones who eliminated the first Elders and Core and saved thousands of lives. And somehow they look at me like I’m theirs. Like I matter.

She blinked hard, refusing to let her eyes sting.

I don’t know why they care. I don’t know why any of them do. I’m human. I’m broken. I’m…

She hesitated, the pen hovering.

I’m not who I was supposed to be… and I am not sure where I fit in this world anymore.

That was the truth she never said aloud. The truth that sat heavily in her chest every morning when she woke up and remembered she didn’t have a wolf. That she never would. That the magic that once lived inside her had been ripped out, leaving her hollow and pale and wrong. She scribbled harder, the letters sharp and uneven.

The extraction changed me. Physically, I mean. My hair used to be darker, a warm blonde; now it’s white blonde, like frost. My eyes used to be a warm blue, but like my hair, they are lighter. Too light. Like someone washed the colour out of me and forgot to put it back.

She stared at the words until they blurred.

Everyone says I look ethereal, or unique, or striking. But what they really mean is I am different and not normal. They mean to say that I am not one of them.

Her jaw tightened.

I’m supposed to be grateful I survived. And I am, I think. But sometimes it feels like I’m just… leftover pieces. Like the magic took the important parts with it.

She snapped the diary shut, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“Brilliant,” she muttered. “Another emotionally enlightening masterpiece.”

She tossed the pen onto the bedside table and leaned back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling of her bedroom. The walls were painted a soft grey Elara insisted was “calming,” and the fairy lights Kaelan hung for her flickered gently, casting warm gold across the room. It should have felt safe. It should have felt like home. It did… And it didn’t.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to quiet the restless ache beneath her ribs. She hated this, the heaviness, the uncertainty, the constant sense of being out of place. She hated that she couldn’t just be normal, whatever that meant. She hated that she still felt like she was thirteen and waiting to die.

Ana said writing would help her 'process', Elara said it would help her 'heal', and Kaelan said it would help her 'find herself.'

Talia said it was a waste of perfectly good paper.

She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The diary sat on the bedside table like it was judging her. “Don’t look at me like that,” she grumbled. “You’re lucky I wrote anything at all.”

She knew she was being dramatic, but she didn’t care, because the truth was simple… she didn’t know who she was anymore. She pushed herself upright again, restless. Maybe Ana was right. Maybe she needed to write more and talk more. Maybe she needed to stop pretending she was fine.

She snorted softly. “Yeah. That’ll happen.”

She lay back down and pulled the blanket over her head like a child hiding from monsters. Except the monsters she feared weren’t under her bed. They were in her blood, in her memories, in the magic that once lived inside her, in the curse she didn’t want, and in the future she couldn’t see.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Tonight… she’d sleep, or try to at least, and tomorrow she will try again.