The room was colder than she remembered.
It wasn't the kind of cold that made you shiver — it was the kind that clung to the skin, crept into your lungs, and made the air taste like metal. The walls were dark stone, veined with strange markings that pulsed faintly, like veins carrying light instead of blood.
For something whispered about in the manor as "the sacred chamber," it looked anything but holy.
It was buried deep beneath the manor — the air stale, thick with the scent of old blood and smoke. The torches lining the walls flickered with a dim, bluish flame, casting shadows that seemed to breathe and move of their own accord.
The walls were built from black stone, smooth but scarred — every inch carved with sigils and runes that pulsed faintly in the dark, veins of light running like cracks in dying embers. Some marks glowed crimson, others a dull silver, shifting with every breath Kael took. It felt alive. Watching.
Chains hung loosely from one corner, relics of another time. Dried wax pooled beneath candle stands, hardened into shapes that resembled reaching fingers. The center of the room held a circular altar of obsidian — smooth, reflective, and cold — marked by deep claw-like scratches that even time refused to erase.
No windows. No sound but the faint echo of a heartbeat — his heartbeat — resonating against the walls.Even the air seemed to hum faintly, as if the curse itself lingered in every breath.
And yet… beneath all that darkness, there was something beautifully tragic about it.This was not a sanctuary. It was a containment. A reminder that the Dravenhart bloodline was built upon a deal sealed in shadows.
Zelene's fingers brushed the surface of the altar, the air prickling against her skin. Her Aether stirred faintly, reacting — not to evil, but to sorrow.The room wasn't cursed. It was grieving.
This wasn't a sacred chamber.
It was a prison — one built to contain something that should never have existed.
The only source of warmth came from the dying embers near the altar, where Kael sat slumped against a stone column. His coat lay discarded beside him, his shirt torn and damp from sweat. The faint glow of the curse — those dark veins coiling up his arm — had faded, but not vanished.
Zelene stood quietly for a long moment. The silence pressed heavy between them.
She should've left. She knew that.
But she couldn't.
"Kael," she said softly, breaking the quiet. "What… exactly is this curse?"
He looked up — startled, almost wary.
"Why ask that?"
She hesitated. "Because you are suffering from something I do not quite understand. And I cannot just… stand here and watch it destroy you."
His eyes — cold, storm-grey — softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "Understanding it does not help. It only hurts."
"Then let me be the one who hurts a little," Zelene whispered, stepping closer. "You have carried it alone for too long."
Kael exhaled, slow and heavy, like the breath of someone who had been holding the truth for years.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough — a confession torn between resentment and regret.
"The Dravenhart curse… began generations ago. My ancestor, the first Duke, made a pact with something that was not human — something ancient. In exchange for victory and dominion, he took its mark."
His gaze drifted to the coiled shadows under his skin. "That mark passes down through blood. It feeds on strength… and guilt. The more sin a Dravenhart bears, the deeper the curse roots itself."
Zelene's brows knit together. "So it punishes you for… existing?"
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "You could say that. The Dravenharts were conquerors. The curse ensures we never forget it."
He leaned back against the cold stone, eyes dark with exhaustion. "No one outside this room knows what it really does. It doesn't just cause pain. It whispers. It tempts. It reminds me that my blood was born from greed and violence."
The weight in his tone made her chest tighten.
And for the first time, she understood why his silence always carried so much… distance.
He wasn't cold by choice. He was containing something that wanted to consume him.
She lowered her voice. "And Miren? What's her part in this?"
That name made something flicker in his eyes — a sharp, almost defensive glint.
"She's been with the Dravenhart line since before I was born," Kael said. "Her family served ours for centuries. Miren knows the curse better than anyone."
Zelene frowned. "Then she's helping you manage it?"
He hesitated — just long enough for her to catch it.
"…In her own way."
"That doesn't sound convincing."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Miren's loyalty runs deep. Too deep, sometimes. She believes the curse defines what we are — that it is the source of our strength, not our downfall. She treats it like something holy."
Zelene blinked. "Holy?"
He nodded once. "To her, the Dravenhart bloodline is sacred because of it. She sees the curse as proof of divine favor, not punishment."
The words chilled her more than the room itself.
Zelene wrapped her arms around herself, glancing at the runes glowing faintly beneath their feet. The flicker of black light made her stomach twist. "That is not devotion. That is obsession."
Kael said nothing.
For a while, the only sound was the soft crackle of dying embers.
Zelene looked at him again — the faint tremor in his hand, the dull ache in his gaze, the exhaustion he tried to hide beneath control.
"You have been carrying all this… alone," she murmured. "No wonder you lock yourself away."
"I have done what I must," he replied quietly. "The curse is my burden to bear. No one else's."
Zelene's hand curled at her side. "That is where you're wrong, Kael. You cannot fight something like this by pretending it is just yours. I am afraid that you will end up losing yourself."
He looked up then — not as the Duke, but as a man who hadn't heard such defiance in a long time.
There was something dangerous in her resolve, something that almost made him smile.
"You should not care this much, Zelene," he said softly, almost like a warning.
But his tone faltered, like he didn't quite believe it himself.
She smiled faintly — a fragile, stubborn curve of her lips.
"That is... too late."