Kael's POV
The manor had changed.He could feel it — not in its walls or corridors, but in the air. A faint tension, like strings pulled taut beneath every conversation, every servant's hurried step.
Dravenhart was a house built on discipline. It thrived on structure, on control. Yet lately, things moved beneath that surface — whispers, missing reports, servants avoiding his gaze.
And somewhere in the middle of that unease was her.
Lady Evandelle.Zelene.
Kael sat behind his desk, unread reports stacked neatly before him. He'd already gone through the ledgers twice, found nothing irregular — at least, nothing obvious. But she'd been… busy. Too busy.
Her sudden attentiveness to the manor's inner affairs hadn't gone unnoticed. Questioning staff, strolling into storage wings she had no reason to visit, calling servants by name — even the ones most nobles never bothered to remember.
At first, he'd thought it boredom. Then he realized: boredom didn't make someone this careful.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, eyes narrowing as he stared out the tall window of his office. Below, in the courtyard, she was walking with Ray — again.
The man shadowed her like a silent wraith, but even at this distance, Kael caught the faint movement of her hands — animated, expressive. She was talking to him, smiling faintly, her voice likely full of that quiet stubbornness he knew too well.
Something twisted in his chest. Irritation, he told himself. Not jealousy — never that.
He leaned back, jaw tightening. "She's hiding something."
Across the room, Darius looked up from the map he'd been annotating. "The lady?"
Kael gave a curt nod. "She's moving in places she shouldn't be. Talking to servants. Even Miren seems unsettled."
"That's… new," Darius said carefully, eyes studying his commander's expression. "She doesn't strike me as reckless."
"She's curious," Kael replied, the word tasting both fond and bitter. "And curiosity here gets people killed."
He rose, crossing to the window again. Zelene had stopped beneath the archway, the wind teasing loose strands of her hair. She looked — alive, somehow. More than most people he knew.
"Find out what she's doing," he ordered quietly. "Discreetly. I want a report before sunset."
Darius frowned. "You could just ask her, you know."
Kael's gaze stayed on her figure in the courtyard, light framed by shadow. "If I ask," he said flatly, "she'll lie."
Darius hesitated, then nodded. "Understood."
When the door closed behind him, Kael remained by the window a moment longer. His reflection stared back — cold, composed, the mask of the Duke. But underneath, beneath the iron and titles, there was something else.
He remembered that night — the blood, the blade meant for her, the quiet sound of her voice trembling not from fear, but defiance.
He should have kept her away. From the capital. From Dravenhart. From him.
But it was too late for that.
Zelene's POV
Zelene didn't mean to end up in the west wing again.
She told herself she wouldn't — not after the last time.
But tonight, the manor felt restless.
The servants whispered of storms though the skies were clear, and the air carried that strange heaviness again — a kind of silence that pressed down until it was hard to breathe.
And just like before… she felt it.
That faint pulse beneath the marble floors, that rhythmic throb of dark energy buried deep within the Dravenhart estate — the curse, stirring once more.
Ray walked beside her in uneasy quiet.
"Milady," he murmured, though his voice barely reached her. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know," she replied softly, eyes fixed ahead. "But he's hurting again, isn't he?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The faint glow bleeding under the sealed door at the end of the corridor said enough.
Zelene's heart hammered. The last time she saw Kael like that — crumpled, choking on his own breath, pain carved into every muscle — she hadn't known what to do. She had acted purely on instinct, pressing her hands to his chest, and somehow… the light within her had answered. Aether Requiem.
It had saved him — for a night.
But the memory of that night never left her.
The door groaned open, heavy and reluctant, as if it hadn't been touched for years.A thick wave of cold air swept past her, carrying the scent of iron and damp stone.
This was the place she wasn't supposed to see — the forbidden heart of the Dravenhart manor.
They called it the sacred chamber, but nothing about it felt sacred.
The walls bled shadows. Black stone stretched from floor to ceiling, engraved with glowing sigils that pulsed like veins of light beneath the surface. Some flickered red, others a haunting silver — the colors shifting, alive, echoing with every shallow breath Kael took. It was as if the curse itself had soaked into the walls, refusing to leave.
Chains hung from one side, rusted and heavy, relics from an age that didn't belong to this world anymore. The air hummed faintly — not with life, but with restrained agony.
At the center stood an obsidian altar, smooth and mirror-dark, cracked with faint claw marks that glowed faintly under the dim torchlight. The ground beneath it was carved with runes, spiraling outward in patterns so intricate it hurt to look at.
And there he was.
Kael Dravenhart — Duke of the Dravenhart, the man who commanded armies without fear — kneeling before that altar, one hand braced against the stone as his body trembled.
His breath came in ragged bursts, sweat glistening on his skin. The black markings that crawled across his arm shimmered faintly, like molten ink trying to burn its way out of him.
"Kael…" I whispered, moving closer before I could stop myself.
His name came out softer than she intended.
He didn't look at her — just clenched his jaw, forcing words through gritted teeth.
"Didn't I tell you— not to— come here—"
"Then stop making me worry," she shot back, stepping forward despite the burning in her palms. The energy in the air clawed at her skin, warning her away, but she didn't stop until she was kneeling beside him.
The curse flared in protest. The ground cracked.
And then her hand moved on its own — that light again, pale and trembling.
The Aether Requiem.
It poured from her skin in threads of gold and white, meeting the darkness halfway. The moment it touched Kael's arm, the curse hissed — alive, furious — before retreating like smoke pulled by wind. His body arched once, his breath hitched, and then… it quieted.
The storm ended as suddenly as it began.
Zelene's hand fell away, trembling. The light faded, her vision dimmed.
It was done. But she knew — like before — it was only temporary.
Kael exhaled shakily, the sweat clinging to his temple catching the faint candlelight.
He didn't speak for a long time.
When he did, his voice was low.
"You shouldn't have come here again."
Zelene almost laughed — not from humor, but from sheer disbelief. "And let you die on the floor? No, thank you."
"This curse—" he stopped himself, shaking his head. "It is not something you should touch. It is older than this house. Older than me."
"I noticed," she murmured.
Her tone softened as she met his eyes — not the cold, distant Duke the world saw, but the man beneath. Tired. Human. Breaking quietly behind a wall of pride.
She reached for a cloth, dabbing the blood from his arm. "You hide it well, though. The pain."
He didn't answer.
But for a heartbeat, she thought she saw it — that flicker of vulnerability he'd buried under command and restraint.
Later, after she left, Kael sat alone in the dark.
His arm still tingled where her light had touched him, the curse now dormant, whispering instead of screaming.
He should have felt anger.
Instead, all he felt was fear — not for himself, but for her.
Because what she carried… wasn't ordinary magic. It was divine.
The Aether Requiem — the light that judges, weighs sins, and delivers its verdict without mercy.
And she, reckless as she was, had touched the heart of the Dravenhart curse with it.
That light could unmake him as easily as it soothed him.
Kael clenched his fists.
No one could know. Not Miren. Not the council. Not even Darius.
If word spread that Zelene bore that Gift — the same light the ancient saints once feared — every greedy hand in the empire would reach for her.
He looked toward the door she'd disappeared through, his expression unreadable.
"Why… do you always walk toward the fire?" he murmured to the empty room.
But the words felt more like a plea than a question.