The sun never truly rose over Ashthorn Village that morning.
Instead, a cold, colorless light seeped through the clouds—thin, grey, and sickly. It painted everything in the same muted shade: the crooked houses, the frost-bitten fields, the dirt paths worn by tired footsteps.
And the boy standing in the middle of the empty street…
Arin.
His breathing was shallow. His fingertips trembled. What happened last night still clung to him like a second skin—the vision of the Cursed Root erupting inside his soul, the way his blood turned black for a heartbeat, the whisper:
"You were never meant to be ordinary."
He had not slept. He had not dared to.
Now, as he stepped forward, doors began to shut.
One by one.
With clicks sharper than knives.
Women pulling their children back. Men gripping rusty tools as if the wooden handles could protect them from him. Even the dogs avoided him, whining and crawling beneath wagons.
Not a single person stepped within ten paces of him.
Arin swallowed.
He had always been tolerated—not liked, not trusted, but tolerated. The orphans of Ashthorn rarely were welcome, but they were not hunted either.
Until now.
He took one more step.
Old Man Bratlen spat on the ground.
"Keep walking, cursed child."
Arin froze.
A whisper behind a window hissed, "Did you see his eyes last night? Black as the abyss!"
Another shrieked, "He carries misfortune! His parents were the first—now us?"
"The curse mark appeared during the Blood Eclipse…"
"No ordinary child could survive that!"
Arin's nails dug into his palms.
He had felt isolated his whole life, but this—this was different.
This was fear.
Raw. Animalistic. All-consuming.
He tried to speak, but his throat tightened.
"I… I'm still me."
Old Man Bratlen barked a laugh.
"No, you're not. And we know what happens to villages that keep cursed ones alive."
Others nodded silently.
A woman whispered, tears in her eyes, "My child dreamt of a black tree strangling him last night. You did that. You brought it."
"I didn't—"
A rock hit his shoulder.
Small. But the message was enormous.
Another followed.
And another.
Not enough to injure.
Just enough to degrade.
To push him out.
To tell him he no longer belonged.
A soft voice suddenly cut from behind him.
"Stop this at once."
Arin turned.
Elder Mirea stepped forward, her silver hair tied tightly behind her head, her staff tapping the dirt. The villagers stepped back slightly—Elder Mirea was both respected and feared for her deep knowledge of the old arts.
She stopped beside Arin, but her gaze did not soften.
"You all are blinded by panic," she said. "He is only a child."
"Only a child?" someone shouted. "A cursed child!"
Elder Mirea's voice lowered.
"And cursed children grow into cursed men, is that it?"
Silence.
Heavy. Bitter.
She looked at Arin with eyes that saw too much.
"Come with me. We will talk."
Arin followed, his steps stiff.
But even as he left the square, he could feel their stares drilling holes in his back… Desperation. Terror. Hatred.
He had become something worse than an orphan.
He had become a threat.
---
Inside Elder Mirea's House
Elder Mirea closed the door behind them.
Her home smelled of herbs and old books. A fire crackled softly.
Arin remained standing.
She looked at him a long moment, the fire reflecting in her sharp eyes.
"It awakened, didn't it?"
Arin flinched.
"You knew?"
"I suspected. The signs were too clear."
Her voice carried an unsettling calmness, as if she had been waiting for this.
"What do you see inside yourself?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"A… tree. Black. Twisted. It breathes."
Her pupils shrank.
"And there's a voice. It speaks when I sleep."
Arin's voice cracked.
"It told me… I was chosen. But I didn't ask for this. I don't want it."
Elder Mirea leaned closer, whispering:
"No one chooses the path of curses. It is a fate forced upon them."
Arin clenched his fists.
"Why me?"
A long silence.
Then, in a voice barely audible, she answered:
"Because your bloodline carries one of the Nine Forbidden Maledictions."
Arin's breath caught.
"My… bloodline?"
"Your parents were not simple wanderers, as the villagers believe. They were fleeing something. Something ancient."
She paused.
"And they died trying to hide you."
Arin felt dizzy, the room tilting.
"What am I…?"
"You," she said, "are a Cursebearer. One of the rarest beings in the world."
Arin's heartbeat echoed in his ears.
She continued:
"In your soul is a seed—The Cursed Root. If left unchecked, it will devour your sanity, your memories, your humanity."
She stepped closer.
"But if controlled… you can wield power beyond imagination."
Arin's voice was barely a whisper.
"Power? I can't even walk in the village without being attacked."
"Power invites fear. And fear invites hatred."
Her expression hardened.
"The villagers will not let you stay. They will drive you out, or worse."
Arin lowered his head.
He had known it. Felt it. Seen it in their eyes.
He was no longer Arin, the quiet boy from the edge of the village.
He was Arin, the cursed omen.
Elder Mirea placed a thin, black-bound book in his hands.
"This is the Forbidden Manual of Maledictions," she said.
"Your parents entrusted it to me. They believed you might awaken one day."
Arin opened it.
The pages pulsed faintly, as if something alive lurked within.
Symbols twisted across the parchment—shifting, writhing, breathing.
Arin felt a chill seep into his bones.
"This manual," Elder Mirea whispered, "contains the path that will either save you… or destroy you."
Arin looked up, fear flashing across his face.
"Can I control it?"
"No one truly controls a curse," she said.
"But you can learn to bend it—before it bends you."
Arin swallowed.
Elder Mirea's next words dropped like a hammer:
"You have three days. Before the villagers gather their courage to kill you."
Silence engulfed the room.
Arin felt something inside him crack—not a break, but a shift.
A faint, cold flame lit behind his ribs.
"So what must I do?" he asked quietly.
Elder Mirea looked straight into his eyes.
"Survive."
A pause.
"And walk the path your blood demands."
Arin closed the manual slowly, as if sealing a promise.
Outside, the cold wind howled through the crooked houses—
a warning,
a threat,
and a prophecy.
The child once ignored by the village…
was no longer someone they could contain.
The first step had been taken.
The curse had truly awakened