The road to the temple would have to wait.
Hearthollow's troubles were growing, and Caelen couldn't walk away—not yet. The village was a chorus of fear now, louder than ever, and it wasn't just the Hollow.
People were vanishing.
First Old Torm, the miller, gone after a late walk. Then Lila, a girl barely twelve, who'd wandered too close to the lake. The villagers whispered of curses, of shadows in the water, and their dread sank into Caelen like stones.
He stood at the village square, Elira at his side, as Marren recounted the latest loss.
"It's the lake," the blacksmith said, his voice low, like he feared the words might summon something. "Always been strange, that place. But now… it's hungry."
Caelen's curse thrummed, picking up a new thread of pain—not the villagers', but something older, colder, tied to the earth itself. He glanced at Elira, her face tight, her green eyes scanning the crowd.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she murmured. "Something's wrong."
He nodded, though he wished he didn't. "I need to see it. The lake. If people are disappearing, it's not random."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. "I'm coming with you."
He wanted to protest—her pain was already a storm in his chest, and the lake's pull felt dangerous—but her eyes held a fire he couldn't douse.
"Fine," he said. "But stay close."
---
The lake lay a mile west, cradled by willows and reeds, its surface smooth as glass.
By day, it was beautiful, a mirror for the sky's blues and golds. But as Caelen and Elira approached at dusk, the air grew heavy, the light dimming as if the sun itself recoiled. The water was still—too still—and Caelen's curse screamed.
A wail of loss. Of voices trapped in the deep.
"This place is cursed," Elira said, her voice barely a whisper. She clutched the dagger Marren had given them, its runes glinting faintly. "It's like the temple, before it fell. Like something's watching."
Caelen didn't answer. He felt it too—a presence, not alive but not dead, woven into the water. He stepped closer, the mud sucking at his boots, and the pain sharpened—a chorus of grief that wasn't his own.
Torm. Lila. Others, older, their names forgotten. They were here, beneath the surface, their sorrow calling him.
"Caelen," Elira hissed, grabbing his arm. "Don't."
But he couldn't stop. The curse pulled him, a tide he couldn't fight.
He knelt at the water's edge, his reflection staring back—hollow eyes, a face too young for its weight. Then the reflection rippled, and it wasn't his face anymore.
Lila's. Pale and pleading. Her mouth moved without sound.
Help us.
He reached out, fingers brushing the water, and the world tilted.
Cold surged through him—not just temperature but absence. A void where feeling should be.
The lake wasn't just water. It was a wound. A scar in Aerthalin's soul.
And something lived in it.
"Caelen!" Elira's shout snapped him back.
He yanked his hand free, stumbling, as the water churned.
A shape rose—not solid, but fluid. A woman woven of lake and shadow. Her eyes were hollows, her hair a cascade of weeds, and her voice was a chorus—dozens of souls speaking as one.
"You feel us," she said, the words a knife in Caelen's mind. "You carry our pain. Join us."
Elira pulled him back, her dagger raised. "Stay away from him!"
The spirit's gaze shifted, and Caelen felt its curiosity. Its hunger.
"You," it said to Elira. "You know loss. You know fire. You belong here too."
Caelen's curse roared, the spirit's pain crashing into him—centuries of grief, of souls trapped when the world broke. He saw flashes: a city sinking, a temple crumbling, people screaming as the water took them.
This wasn't just a lake.
It was a grave.
"Leave her alone," he said, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. He stepped forward, placing himself between Elira and the spirit. "You want me? Fine. But let the others go. Torm. Lila. They don't belong here."
The spirit tilted its head, its form rippling. "You cannot free what is bound. Their pain anchors us. As yours will."
Caelen's heart pounded, but he didn't back down.
His curse was a curse, yes—but it was also a bridge.
He could feel their pain. Maybe he could carry it too.
"Then give it to me," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "Their pain. All of it. Let them go."
Elira grabbed his shoulder. "Caelen, no! You can't—"
But he was already reaching.
Not with his hands—but with his curse.
Opening himself to the lake's sorrow.
It hit like a flood—grief, rage, despair. Centuries of it, tearing through him. He gasped, falling to his knees, but he didn't stop.
Torm's loneliness. Lila's fear. The ancient city's collapse. He took it all, weaving it into himself, his body shaking with the weight.
The spirit screamed—a sound that split the air—and the water surged, waves crashing against the shore.
Elira held him, her arms tight, her voice a desperate anchor.
"Caelen, stay with me. Don't you dare let go."
He didn't know how long it lasted.
Seconds. Hours.
But when the water stilled, the spirit was gone, its form dissolving into mist.
The lake was just a lake again. Its surface calm. Its pain quieted.
Caelen collapsed, gasping, the stolen grief burning in his veins. He felt Torm and Lila—their souls free. Their pain, his now.
Elira knelt beside him, her face pale, her eyes fierce.
"You idiot," she said, her voice breaking. "Why did you do that?"
He managed a weak smile, his breath ragged. "Couldn't… let them stay. Not like that."
She shook her head, tears glinting in the moonlight. "You're going to get yourself killed, carrying everyone's pain."
"Maybe," he said, sitting up slowly. "But not today."
---
They sat there, the night wrapping around them, the lake silent but no longer empty.
Caelen felt the new pain settling, a heavy stone among the others he carried.
But he felt something else too—Elira's hand on his arm. Her warmth cutting through the cold.
Her pain was still there, a storm he couldn't outrun, but so was her strength. Her fire.
"We need to leave," she said, her voice steady now. "The Hollow, the lake—it's all connected. Whatever's waking, it's spreading."
He nodded, though the thought of the road ahead made his chest tighten. "Tomorrow," he said. "We'll go."
She looked at him, her gaze softening. "You don't have to do this, Caelen. You've already done enough."
He met her eyes, seeing the spark of trust that hadn't been there before.
"No," he said. "I haven't."
As they walked back to Hearthollow, the stars bright above, Caelen felt the world's pain pressing down.
But he felt her too—Elira. A light in the dark. A reason to keep walking.
And for the first time, he wondered if his curse could be more than a burden.
Maybe, just maybe—it could be a way to heal.