Marian watched in horror as the wicked witch crumbled into ash. The forest wind carried the remains into nothingness, scattering the last of her existence like smoke dissolving into the sky.
Beside her, Rossetta gasped, clawing at her chest as if something seared within. Her breath came ragged, her fingers digging into her skin where a faint rune ignited, glowing like fire carved upon flesh. The mark spread across her body, curling over her arms, her throat, her heart.
And far away—beyond the sisters' sight—a second light burst into being. Its glow pulsed stronger, brighter. With each flare, the agony inside Rossetta deepened, pulling a scream from her lips.
The curse had found its anchor. Two souls, now shackled.
The boy.
He was no longer free in the forest; he was on his knees in the mud, surrounded by men with blades and cruel laughter. Kidnappers.
Their shadows loomed tall, but even their malice faltered when the boy's cries filled the night—shrieks born not only of their beatings, but of the curse itself tearing through his small frame.
One of the men staggered, his bravado faltering as unease chilled his spine.
"Cover him!" the leader barked, his voice sharp with fear.
"Someone will hear him! Do it, now!"
"Is this… a witch's curse?" another muttered, voice trembling.
The men exchanged glances. Several stumbled back, horror etched across their faces. A few fled outright, their boots pounding against the earth as if chased by death itself.
The leader sneered, refusing to let fear show. He turned his fury back to the boy, striking him with a savage kick. The child folded beneath the blow, coughing mud and blood. The man raised a whip, ready to lash again—
—but his arm froze.
A hand had seized it.
He looked up. A figure stood before him, cloaked and masked, her presence suffocating as winter frost. The remaining kidnappers staggered back, some trembling, others whispering prayers.
"A witch," one whimpered.
"She'll curse us all!"
The leader hissed, voice low with defiance.
"Who are you?"
Her tone was quiet, almost gentle, but it cut sharper than any blade.
"This boy is under my protection. Order your men to silence their tongues about this night—and I will spare you."
The man smirked, though sweat gleamed at his temple.
"Spare us? You're a witch. One word from me, and the pyres will burn for you."
At this, Rossetta laughed. The sound was soft, mocking, and unbearably cold.
The boy, curled in the mud, peeked between his arms. His eyes widened, transfixed by the clash of fear and power before him.
"I can make your guild rise to heights you've never dreamed," Rossetta said, lifting her branch—though in her grip, it gleamed like a blade.
"Or I can erase you without a trace. Who do you think is faster—your legs, or my spell?"
She moved before the man could answer. The stick flashed, biting into his shin. He dropped to his knees, gasping in pain.
"Keep him alive. Keep him safe. Do this, and wealth and power will follow," Rossetta offered, her eyes narrowing.
The leader froze, torn between temptation and terror. His men watched him, waiting. He weighed her words, the ache in his shin throbbing with each breath.
Finally, he exhaled, shoulders slumping. "I won't gamble my guild for a child's life," he said bitterly.
Rossetta tilted her head, curious.
"I am Marco," he continued,
"a commoner. A small-time mercenary captain—paid for dirty work, guarding caravans no knight would touch."
Rossetta's lips curved faintly.
"Then build your own guild with the cowards who fled. Give them hush money if you must, but make them remember—none can hide from me."
Marco bowed his head in bitter acknowledgment. He raised his hand, signaling to his men. They lifted the boy, who had collapsed into unconsciousness.
From the shadows, Marian emerged, her own mask concealing her face. She knelt beside the boy, green light spilling from her palms as she healed him, weaving threads of life into his frail body. His breathing steadied, though his small frame trembled from exhaustion.
"Return tomorrow," Rossetta commanded, her voice firm.
"Same place, same hour. You'll have your reward."
She turned away, her cloak sweeping behind her, and knelt beside the child, whom Marian now held protectively. His eyes fluttered open, dazed and wet with tears.
Rossetta lowered herself to his level, her gaze unreadable.
"If pain is my prison," she whispered,
"then yours shall be lovelessness—until death frees us both."
Her hand brushed his forehead. Warm light bloomed, enveloping them both. Ancient runes etched themselves upon his skin, binding him as surely as her own chains bound her.
Marian's eyes widened. "Rossetta—no!"
But Rossetta's voice shook with the weight of memory as she murmured the spell, finalizing the curse.
The pain of betrayal.
The pain of abandonment.
The pain of loving too deeply.
She could endure blades, fire, chains—but not that pain again. Not the pain of the heart.
Afraid the boy would one day suffer what she had, she sealed his emotions. Locked them behind iron walls no one could breach.
"It will keep you level-headed," she whispered to him, almost tenderly.
"For no agony rivals the cruelty of love betrayed. Love is weakness. And weakness… destroys."
The boy's eyes slid shut, sinking into unconsciousness.
Rossetta's body trembled. With Marian's arm steadying her, the sisters vanished into the night, leaving only fear and whispers behind.
"What now?" one of the kidnappers asked, voice shaking.
Marco—still kneeling, blood soaking through his torn trousers where Rossetta's blow had struck—pressed a hand to his healed shin. The pain had vanished. The wound was gone, as though it had never been. Yet the memory of it lingered sharp, and the blood on his clothes was proof it had been real.
He shivered.
"They spared us when they could have erased us," he said darkly.
"That witch gave us a chance to rise. Do you fools not see? This boy is no ordinary child. Even his enemies are his protection."
He stood, limping slightly, and looked toward the unconscious child.
"From this night forward, he is ours to guard. Treat him well, or you will answer to them."
The men nodded, fear silencing their doubts.
Marco turned, leading them back to their carriage. Yet his thoughts burned.
If these witches truly backed him, then rising to power was no dream. It was destiny.
Back at their temporary home, Rossetta collapsed. Marian caught her, heart hammering.
"Why would you cast a curse?" Marian cried, tears streaking her cheeks.
"Do you not know what retribution awaits the caster? What it might cost you?"
Rossetta, pale and trembling, smiled faintly.
"Who would have thought," she whispered,
"that the great witch Rossetta—who never cursed even those who wronged her—would curse a boy she does not even know… I don't even know his name."
Her eyes fluttered shut. The smile lingered, fragile as glass, as she slipped into unconsciousness.
Marian, choking on her tears, held her close.
Neither of them knew that fate had sealed itself that night. Two souls chained together—not only by curse, but by something far more merciless.
Faith.