The path winds through sodden fields and broken fences, leading them toward the faint curl of smoke on the horizon. Kael walks carefully, his body still weak, his chest aching with every step. The cursed mark pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat, a constant reminder that he carries something unnatural.
Elira clings to his arm. She matches his pace without complaint, her golden hair plastered to her face by the rain. Every so often, she hums quietly, as if the silence unsettles her more than the corpses they left behind.
As they crest a hill, the village comes into view. What should be a cluster of warm homes looks more like a graveyard. Roofs are half-burnt, chimneys broken, and blackened fields stretch into the distance. A few figures move among the ruins, scavenging wood or carrying buckets of muddy water.
Kael's chest tightens. He does not know these people, yet the weight of their despair presses down on him.
"We should ask for help," he says.
Elira's grip tightens. "Help?"
He glances at her. Her smile is thin, her eyes sharp.
"We need food," Kael explains. "Shelter. Information. If there are survivors here, they might know what happened."
"They are strangers," Elira whispers. "They will only take from you. I will not allow it."
Kael stops walking. The villagers have noticed them now. A young boy points in their direction, and an older woman pulls him back, wary but curious.
"Elira," Kael says firmly. "We cannot survive alone."
For a heartbeat, he thinks she will argue. But then she lowers her gaze and nods. Her smile returns, soft and obedient.
"As you wish," she murmurs. Yet her fingers dig into his arm, leaving little crescents of pain.
They enter the village. The air smells of ash and damp earth. Most of the huts are charred, their walls collapsing inward. Villagers watch from doorways, their faces gaunt. A man with a scar across his cheek approaches cautiously, his hand resting on a rusted spear.
"You two," he calls. "You are not from here."
Kael straightens. "We came from the battlefield. I woke there among the dead."
The man narrows his eyes. "You should not have survived. None did." His gaze shifts to Elira, lingering on her bloodstained robes. Suspicion hardens his face.
Elira notices. She leans closer to Kael, resting her head against his shoulder with deliberate intimacy. Her smile is bright, but her eyes flash cold as steel.
"He is mine," she says sweetly. "Do not look at him."
The man blinks, taken aback. Kael feels heat rise in his face. "Elira…" he mutters, but she does not move.
Another villager, a thin woman with tired eyes, steps forward. "You must be hungry. We do not have much, but you may share what we have. Come."
Elira's fingers twitch. Kael feels her nails pressing harder into his arm. He forces a smile at the woman and nods.
"Thank you," he says.
They are led into the remains of a hall, its roof half-collapsed but still offering shelter from the rain. Inside, a fire burns weakly. A pot of thin broth simmers above it. A few children huddle together, their eyes wide.
The woman ladles broth into two bowls and offers them. Kael accepts with gratitude, but before he can drink, Elira takes his bowl. She sips first, her eyes never leaving his face, then hands it back.
"It is safe," she says softly.
Kael swallows and drinks. The broth is watery but warm. He realizes how empty his stomach has been since waking.
The children whisper, pointing at him. One of them giggles nervously. Elira's head snaps toward them. Her smile remains, but her eyes are dark, sharp as blades. The children fall silent instantly, shrinking back.
Kael lowers his bowl. "Elira," he says under his breath.
She looks back at him, her expression softening instantly. "Yes?"
He hesitates. "Nothing."
The scarred man from earlier enters the hall. "If you came from the battlefield, you should know… the war has reached every corner. Armies march under banners we do not recognize. Something stirs in the north. Some say the gods themselves have returned."
Kael frowns. The words mean little, yet stir unease in his chest. He opens his mouth to ask more, but Elira speaks first.
"We are leaving soon," she says firmly. "He has no part in your wars."
The man studies her, then Kael. His eyes narrow. "And yet he carries a mark."
Kael stiffens. "You… can see it?"
The man nods slowly. "I fought once in the northern legions. I have seen men cursed like you. None lived long. All drew misfortune wherever they went."
The hall grows quieter. The villagers look at Kael with new fear. Children cling to their mothers.
Kael's pulse quickens. He does not understand this curse, yet the mark burns hotter beneath their stares.
Elira rises suddenly. Her smile never falters, but her hand slides to the knife at her belt.
"He is not cursed," she says sweetly. "He is chosen. If you call him otherwise again, I will open your throat where you stand."
Gasps ripple through the hall. The scarred man grips his spear, but does not raise it.
"Elira," Kael says sharply.
She looks at him, eyes wide with innocence. "I am only protecting you."
Kael's chest aches. He can feel the villagers' fear pressing in, yet without Elira, he would have nothing. No answers. No survival. Only death on the battlefield.
He draws a slow breath and bows his head to the man. "We will not stay long. I only need to understand what happened. Then we will leave."
The man hesitates, then nods curtly. "Speak to the elder at dawn. He remembers more than most. But keep your woman under control, stranger, or there will be blood."
Elira tilts her head, her smile too wide. "If there is blood, it will not be his."
Kael closes his eyes briefly. The storm inside him grows heavier.
The cursed mark beats harder.
And in the quiet crackle of the fire, Kael realizes something he cannot yet admit aloud.
The war outside is dangerous. But the war within Elira's heart may be far worse.