"Some curses are carried in silence. Others whisper until you can't remember whose voice is your own."
The path through the Ashenwood stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of skeletal trees and curling fog. Shadows shifted in the corners of Kael's vision, too fast to follow, too quiet to confront.
Beside him, Elara Veylen walked with her satchel pressed close, boots crunching over dead leaves. Her braid had loosened again since their fight with the hounds, stray strands of chestnut hair falling over her freckled face. She brushed them back with an impatient flick, muttering something under her breath that Kael didn't catch.
For a long while, only the forest spoke—the groan of branches, the hiss of wind. Kael was content with the silence. He preferred it. Silence didn't pry. Silence didn't judge.
But Elara did.
"So," she said finally, adjusting the strap of her satchel, "are you always this talkative, or is tonight special?"
Kael's gray eyes flicked toward her, flat as steel. "You ask too many questions."
"That's a scholar's duty," she replied smoothly. Her emerald eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and defiance. "If no one asks questions, no one learns."
Kael grunted, scanning the treeline. "Questions get people killed."
"And ignorance gets them killed faster."
He almost smirked at that. Almost.
The cursed blade at his side pulsed faintly, as if irritated by the exchange. A whisper curled through his mind, oily and insistent.
She's weak. She bleeds like the others. One strike, and the hunger eases.
Kael's jaw tightened. He forced the thought down, hand twitching against the hilt but not drawing. He'd lived long enough with the curse to know which voices were his and which weren't.
Elara noticed the movement. Her brow furrowed, though she didn't stop walking. "That sword of yours," she said carefully, "it isn't ordinary, is it?"
Kael didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence itself was admission.
Elara studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Figures. You fight like someone who's paying a price for it."
He gave her a sharp look, but her expression was unreadable, half-hidden by shadows and the faint glow of her crystal tucked at her hip.
"Not everything in this world is worth knowing," Kael muttered.
"That's exactly what people say right before I prove them wrong," Elara countered, her lips quirking into the faintest smirk.
Kael shook his head. Stubborn. Reckless. She'd get herself killed one day digging for truths that should stay buried.
But she walked with purpose, her boots steady, her chin lifted despite the weight of the forest pressing in. Not many people could survive an hour in the Ashenwood without flinching at every snapped twig. Yet Elara strode forward, defiance written in every step.
That, Kael admitted silently, was something he could respect.
They made camp at the base of a crooked oak, its roots curling like claws from the earth. Kael gathered dry branches while Elara set her satchel down, pulling free a slim, leather-bound tome.
"You read out here?" Kael asked, eyebrow raised.
Elara looked up, her green eyes catching the firelight as she smiled faintly. "Books don't stop being useful just because monsters roam the woods."
Kael snorted, sparking flint against steel until the campfire flared. Shadows fled reluctantly, curling back into the forest's teeth. He sat across from her, the cursed blade laid carefully beside him, always within reach but never too close.
Elara's gaze drifted to it, lingering. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly.
Kael's hand stilled. "What?"
"The sword. The curse. Whatever you call it."
Her tone wasn't mocking or prying—just curious. Honest.
Kael looked into the flames. For a long while, he didn't answer. Then he said, quietly, "Every day."
Elara's book closed slowly in her lap. She didn't press further, but the flicker of sympathy in her eyes unsettled him more than any question could.
He didn't want her pity.
So he changed the subject. "Why Ebonreach?"
Elara tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. "Research."
"Dangerous city for research."
"All cities are dangerous if you walk in blind." Her lips curved into that stubborn half-smile again. "Besides, the libraries there hold tomes older than kingdoms. Records that survived the Wraith War. I intend to study them."
Kael regarded her in silence. A scholar chasing knowledge into the jaws of death. Foolish. Admirable. Both.
He didn't say so.
The night deepened. Fog crawled along the ground, thick and cold. The fire sputtered under its weight.
Kael felt it before he heard it—the prickling on the back of his neck, the cursed blade stirring like a hound catching scent.
"Elara," he murmured.
She looked up, immediately alert. "What is it?"
The growl came then, low and drawn out, from the treeline. Shapes moved in the fog, larger than the hounds they had faced before.
Kael was already on his feet, cursed blade in hand. The whispers surged.
Yes. Feed. Tear. Consume.
His scar burned as he forced his breathing steady.
Elara rose as well, fingers gripping her crystal, lips already forming incantations. Her braid slipped fully loose now, strands wild around her face, but her emerald eyes were steady. "How many?"
"Too many."
The first shape lunged from the mist—an armored wraith-knight, remnants of an ancient soldier twisted into shadow. Its sword clanged against Kael's cursed blade, sparks of steel and darkness hissing in the night.
Elara slammed her crystal against the earth, runes flaring in a circle that pushed back the fog. The knight recoiled, hissing.
Two more emerged, then three, encircling them.
Kael moved like the storm, his lean frame twisting and striking, every blow precise, brutal. The cursed blade sang in his hands, alive with hunger. Shadows tore and screamed, but each kill fed the whispers louder.
More. More!
His vision blurred at the edges. Rage, hunger, darkness pressing in. He might have lost himself—
If not for the sharp sound of Elara's voice.
"Kael!"
His name cracked through the madness like a whip. His gray eyes snapped back into focus. Elara stood within her glowing runes, green light flickering across her freckled face. She held the barrier steady with both hands, sweat streaking down her brow.
But her gaze—sharp, unyielding—was fixed on him. Anchoring him.
Kael exhaled, steadying himself. He forced the blade down, turning its hunger on the remaining knight. One strike, two, the creature dissolved into mist.
Then silence.
The fog recoiled. The night stilled.
Kael stood panting, cursed blade dripping shadow like blood. His scar burned, silver streak in his hair gleaming faintly under the dying firelight.
Elara lowered her hands, crystal dimming. Her shoulders trembled with exhaustion, but her eyes never left him.
"You almost lost control," she said softly.
Kael slid the blade back into its sheath with deliberate slowness. "I didn't."
"But you could have."
Her words lingered in the air between them, heavier than the mist.
For once, Kael had no answer.
Elara's braid had come undone completely now, hair tumbling around her face in wild strands. She pushed it back with a weary laugh, shaking her head. "You're a disaster waiting to happen, Kael Ardyn."
His gray eyes narrowed. "And you're too curious for your own good."
"Then maybe we'll balance each other out."
Despite himself, Kael almost smiled. Almost.
The cursed blade hummed at his side, restless, but for the first time in years, Kael ignored it.
Instead, he looked at the stubborn scholar across the fire and wondered—not for the first time tonight—why the world had seen fit to place her in his path.