Elira collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, her lungs burning as if they were on fire. She tried to rise, but her ankle buckled beneath her, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her leg. She winced, realizing the bruise had come from the brutal fall when the man's grip had finally broken.
The blinding light had vanished.
The forest was still again.
And the man now lay motionless on the ground, his body sprawled where the light had thrown him.
Is he dead? Elira wondered, heart pounding in her ears.
"But what was that light?" she muttered, dazed. "No, no, Elira. That light saved you. You need to check if he's still breathing."
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself upright, leaning on a nearby tree for support. Each step toward him sent pain lancing up her leg, but she pressed on, limping through the quiet clearing.
Then she saw his face.
And froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Gone were the monstrous features—the jagged horn that once jutted from his forehead, the dark, pulsing veins that had crawled across his skin like cracks in stone. Now, his face was… human.
Startlingly so.
His skin, once ashen and marred, was smooth and pale, almost luminous in the moonlight. His features were sharp and elegant—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, lashes long and dark against his cheeks. But what caught her attention most was the scar.
A deep, jagged line carved through his left eyebrow, splitting it unevenly. The wound had long healed, but the mark remained—a permanent reminder of violence. It gave his otherwise ethereal beauty a brutal edge, a story untold.
His lips, though parted slightly in unconsciousness, were full and soft. He looked like he had stepped out of a dream—or a memory she couldn't quite place.
Elira slowly lowered herself beside him, her eyes never leaving his face.
His chest rose and fell.
He was alive.
Unconscious, but alive.
She stared at him.
She should run.
She wanted to run.
But where?
She didn't even know what place this was—or how the hell she'd ended up in this mess. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, dark and unfamiliar. What lay beyond the trees? More monsters? More curses? More death?
Yet staying here was no safer.
If the man woke up, he might try to kill her again. She'd seen the madness in his eyes, the way he moved like something possessed.
Elira clenched her fists, torn between fear and instinct.
"I can't just leave him… but I can't trust him either," she whispered.
She looked at him again.
Swallowed hard.
She couldn't leave him.
Not just because she wasn't heartless—but because she needed him.
He knew this place. He was dangerous, yes—but he was also her only direction. Someone who might help her get back home.
Her gaze drifted to the thick rope tucked beneath his cloak. Without thinking, she pulled it free and began tying his wrists together, then wrapped it around his upper body. Her fingers trembled as she worked, looping the rope tightly, securing it with a knot she remembered from her father's old camping trips.
Dad would be proud, she thought, blinking back sudden tears.
She could almost hear his voice—calm, steady, always patient.
"Elira, knots aren't just for tents. They're for holding things together when everything else falls apart."
She had rolled her eyes back then, more interested in sneaking snacks than learning survival tricks. But he'd insisted. He always did. And now, here she was—alone in a cursed forest, tying up a man who had nearly killed her, using the very knot her father taught her.
Her chest tightened.
She missed him.
His quiet strength. The way he'd stand between her and the world when her mother's words cut too deep. The way he'd squeeze her shoulder and say, "You're not like them, Elira. That's your power."
She didn't feel powerful now.
But she was alive.
And that had to count for something.
Elira didn't know the rope was enchanted.
She didn't see the faint shimmer that pulsed through its fibers.
She only knew she had to be smart.
"If he wakes up and tries anything, at least he'll be bound," she muttered.
She sat back, breathing heavily, watching his chest rise and fall.
She wasn't safe.
But she wasn't lost either.
Not yet.
Her eyes lingered on his face.
"You're too handsome," she said quietly, "but your attitude ruins it. You should be thankful I'm not like you."
Then, a thought crept into her mind—unsettling and persistent.
He looks familiar.
------------
Lucan's consciousness stirred like ash in the wind.
He felt the earth beneath him—cool, damp, strangely gentle. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. No whispers. No curses. No voice clawing at the back of his mind.
Just silence.
His eyes fluttered open.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting pale silver across the clearing. He blinked, disoriented, and tried to move—but his arms wouldn't budge. Something held him.
Rope.
Tightly wound around his wrists and chest.
He grunted, shifting against the bindings. The knot was firm, expertly done. Not the work of a soldier—but someone who knew survival.
His head throbbed.
Not from pain—but from absence.
The horn was gone.
He reached up instinctively, but the rope stopped him. No jagged bone. No pulsing veins. Just skin. Smooth. Human.
No more whispering in his mind.
And for the first time in years, he had slept—truly slept—like a man, not a monster.
The heaviness that had once weighed down his soul was… calm.
What just happened?
Lucan's breath hitched.
He remembered the moment before the light—Elira's terrified eyes, his hand around her throat, the voice screaming inside him to finish it.
Then… the light.
It hadn't burned him.
It had stripped him.
Not like fire.
Like truth.
He sensed something familiar in that light. Something ancient. Something comforting.
Was that light the reason?
He turned his head slowly and saw her.
Elira.
Sitting beneath a tree, her back pressed against the trunk, her gaze distant and unreadable.
"What have you done to me?" Lucan's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
Elira flinched, startled. But her surprise faded quickly, replaced by a wide smile. She clasped her hands together.
"Thank God, you're awake! I've been waiting here forever," she said, eyes bright with relief. "I kept hearing strange sounds from the distance and prayed they wouldn't find us. You woke up just in time!"
Lucan narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening.
"Why are my hands tied?" he growled, voice rising with fury.
Elira blinked, then let out a soft laugh. "Well, I tied you up. With your own rope, actually."
She held up his sword, the blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
"You nearly killed me, remember? I'm not heartless enough to leave you unconscious in the middle of nowhere, but I'm not stupid either. I figured when you woke up, you'd try to finish what you started. So… I planned ahead."
Lucan stared at her, breathing heavily.
"You think rope will stop me?" he said, voice low and dangerous.
"For the meantime, I guess," Elira replied, her tone calm but cautious. "But you know… your horns are gone now. Your face looks human. And your eyes—they're not crimson anymore. They're blue. Deep, like the ocean. What are you?"
Lucan scoffed, throwing her a sharp, deadly glare.
"Do you think I'm the kind of man you can joke with? What are you if you're not the Saintess?"
Elira furrowed her brows, caught off guard by the way he turned her question back on her.
She sighed, rubbing her temple. "I'm human. And my name is Elira. Believe it or not, I'm not the Saintess."
Lucan's eyes narrowed as he studied her—her face, her posture, her clothing. His gaze lingered a little too long, puzzled by the strange fabric and unfamiliar design.
What kind of clothes are those? he wondered.
Elira noticed.
"Hey! Where do you think you're looking?" she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.
Lucan smirked, unbothered. "Relax. I'm just trying to figure out what kind of girl ties up a king and steals his sword."
"I didn't steal it," Elira said, lifting the blade slightly. "I borrowed it. For survival." She paused, eyes narrowing. "Wait… king? You're a king?!"
Lucan's smirk faded.
He didn't answer.
Instead, his voice dropped, low and sharp.
"If you're not the Saintess from the prophecy," he said slowly, "then what the hell was that light? What kind of power did you unleash?"
Elira hesitated.
Her fingers tightened around the sword's hilt.
"I… don't know," she admitted. "It just happened. I didn't summon it. I didn't even know it was inside me. I swear, I'm really not a Saintess! That light wasn't mine. Maybe someone was trying to save me, or…"
Her voice trailed off.
She searched her thoughts, desperate to find another excuse—anything to make him believe she wasn't the girl from the prophecy.
Lucan's eyes darkened.
She doesn't know what that light was? he thought. But it was real. It burned through the curse. Silenced the voice. The presence inside me… it's still there. But quiet. Asleep.
There was something about her.
Something he needed to understand.
To uncover.
And he would.
"Untie me," Lucan demanded, his voice firm.
Elira blinked, startled by the sudden shift in tone.
"No," she said, gripping the sword tighter. "Not until I know you won't try to kill me again."
Lucan exhaled slowly, his gaze steady.
"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be holding that sword."
"That's exactly why I tied you up," she replied. "You're unpredictable. And I'm not ready to gamble my life on your mood swings. I saw you with my own eyes—how desperate you were, swinging this sword at me like a madman. Untying you would be like handing you my life."
Lucan's jaw clenched.
But he didn't argue.
Instead, he looked at her—really looked at her.
The girl who had unleashed a light that calmed his curse.
The girl who claimed she wasn't divine.
And yet, somehow, had done the impossible.
She was more than a Saintess.
Something about the prophecy wasn't right.
Or it had changed.
And whatever it was…
Lucan knew one thing.
He needed a new plan.