Seraphine's POV
I couldn't sleep.
The secure quarters they'd moved me to were beautiful—soft bed, warm blankets, even a fireplace. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw that angel's face. Heard her words: "You're a goddess. You're dangerous."
Was I? Was I really the reason people were getting hurt?
The Duke had thrown himself in front of a sword for me. A cursed, dying man had risked his life to protect someone he barely knew.
Why?
Around midnight, I gave up on sleep and decided to do what I always did when my mind was too loud—clean something. The guards outside my door tried to stop me, but I convinced them I just wanted to tidy the Duke's study. They reluctantly agreed, as long as I stayed on this floor.
The study was a mess from the angel attack. Broken glass everywhere, papers scattered, furniture overturned. I found a broom and started sweeping, grateful for something normal to do.
That's when I saw it—a large piece of glass from the broken window, hidden under the Duke's desk. I reached for it without thinking.
Pain exploded through my palm as the glass sliced deep into my hand.
"Ah!" I dropped the glass, and blood immediately pooled in my palm, dripping onto the floor. So much blood. The cut was deep—I could see white beneath the red.
My vision swam. I pressed my other hand against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it just kept coming.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Just find something to wrap it—
"What are you doing?"
I spun around and found the Duke standing in the doorway, his ice-blue eyes locked on my bloody hand.
"Your Grace! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I was just cleaning and—" The words tumbled out in a rush. "I'll clean up the blood, I promise, please don't be angry—"
He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed my wrist. Not roughly—his touch was surprisingly gentle. "Let me see."
"It's fine, I can—"
"That's not fine." He pulled my hand toward the light, examining the cut. His jaw tightened. "This needs stitches."
"I don't need a healer. I can just wrap it—"
"Sit."
The command in his voice made me obey instantly. He pushed me into a chair, then disappeared into a side room. He returned with a leather case full of medical supplies.
"I can do it myself," I protested weakly.
"With one hand? I'd like to see you try." He knelt beside me—actually knelt, like I was someone important instead of just a servant—and opened the case. "This is going to hurt."
He poured something clear over the wound. It burned so badly I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
"You're tougher than you look," he said, and I thought I heard approval in his voice.
He worked quickly and carefully, cleaning the wound and then pulling out a needle and thread. I watched, fascinated, as his large hands moved with surprising delicacy.
"Why are you doing this?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
"Because you're bleeding on my floor." But his tone was softer than his words.
"You could've called a healer."
"I could've." He started stitching, and I hissed in pain. "But you looked terrified enough already. Healers ask questions."
He was protecting me. Again. From people who might want to know why I was really here.
"Does it hurt?" I asked suddenly, watching his face. "Your curse?"
His hands stilled for just a second. "What makes you ask that?"
"Earlier, when the angel attacked, you moved so fast to protect me. But after, you could barely stand." I swallowed hard. "It hurts you to move, doesn't it? The curse."
"Every second of every day." He resumed stitching. "Feels like my blood is on fire and my bones are breaking. Over and over."
My chest ached. "Then why did you—why do you keep protecting me? You should be resting, not—"
"Because that's what I do." He tied off the last stitch and started wrapping my hand in clean bandages. "I protect people. It's all I've ever known how to do."
"Even when it hurts you?"
"Especially then." He finished the bandage and sat back, finally meeting my eyes. "Pain is temporary. Regret lasts forever."
For a moment, we just stared at each other. His ice-blue eyes weren't cold anymore—they were sad. Tired. Like he'd been fighting for so long he'd forgotten what peace felt like.
"Thank you," I whispered. "No one's ever... taken care of me before."
Something flickered across his face—anger, but not at me. "What kind of life did you have before here?"
"The normal kind. For someone like me." I looked down at my bandaged hand. "I was bought when I was sixteen. Worked as a servant. Got hit when I messed up. Went hungry most days." I shrugged like it didn't matter, even though it did. "That's just how it is for people with no family."
"That's not normal. That's abuse." His voice was hard. "And it won't happen here. Anyone who hurts you in my castle answers to me. Understand?"
I didn't understand. Why did he care? I was nothing to him. Just a servant who brought angels and danger to his door.
"You're clumsy," he said, standing up. But there was no anger in his voice. Almost... fondness? "Try not to bleed on anything else tonight."
"I'll try, Your Grace."
He started to leave, then stopped. "Cassian."
"What?"
"My name. When we're alone, call me Cassian." He glanced back at me. "I'm tired of being 'Your Grace' all the time."
My heart did a strange flutter. "I... I couldn't. It wouldn't be proper—"
"I'm giving you permission. Use it." He walked to the door, then paused again. "And Seraphine? Stop apologizing for existing. You have nothing to be sorry for."
He left before I could respond.
I sat there, staring at my bandaged hand, feeling warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with divine power.
He'd knelt beside me. Stitched my wound with his own hands. Told me I mattered.
No one had ever done that before.
I touched the bandage gently, and that's when I noticed something strange. The pain was fading. Not slowly, like it should—but fast. Too fast.
I carefully unwrapped the bandage, my heart racing.
The stitches were still there. But the wound beneath them was closing. Healing right before my eyes. The deep cut that should've taken weeks to heal was sealing itself in minutes.
Golden light flickered under my skin.
I quickly rewrapped my hand, panic rising in my throat. This wasn't normal. This wasn't human.
Maybe the angel was right. Maybe I was dangerous.
A knock on the door made me jump. Lyra poked her head in, her red hair messy like she'd just woken up.
"Hey, I heard you were up. Couldn't sleep either?" She came in and sat beside me. Then she saw my bandaged hand. "What happened?"
"Cut myself on glass. The Duke... Cassian... he fixed it."
Lyra's eyebrows shot up. "The Duke personally bandaged your hand?"
"Is that weird?"
"Weird? Seraphine, the Duke doesn't even treat his own wounds. He usually just ignores pain until it goes away or kills him." She leaned closer. "He really is different with you."
"Why, though? I don't understand."
"Maybe..." Lyra hesitated. "Maybe it's the bond. The one the Oracle mentioned."
"What bond?"
"You didn't hear?" Lyra's eyes went wide. "The whole castle is talking about it. The Oracle told the Duke that you two are connected. That his curse and your... goddess thing... are linked somehow."
My blood turned cold. "Linked how?"
"I don't know exactly. But—" She lowered her voice. "I heard Commander Theron talking to the guards. He said if you and the Duke get too close, something bad will happen. Something about the curse activating fully."
The warmth in my chest turned to ice.
Get too close. Like how the Duke had just knelt beside me, touched my hand, looked at me like I mattered.
"Lyra," I said urgently. "What happens if the curse activates fully?"
She bit her lip. "He dies. Instantly."
The world tilted. "No. No, that can't—"
"That's what the curse was designed to do. To kill him if the goddess ever—" She stopped, looking uncomfortable.
"Ever what?"
"Ever falls in love with him," Lyra finished quietly. "Or if he falls in love with her."
I couldn't breathe. The Duke—Cassian—had been so kind to me. Had protected me, bandaged my hand, treated me like a person instead of a thing.
And every moment of kindness was bringing him closer to death.
"I have to stay away from him," I said desperately. "I have to—"
The door burst open. Commander Theron stood there, his face pale and urgent.
"Seraphine, you need to come now. The Duke collapsed. His curse mark is glowing again, and the healers can't stop it." His eyes were filled with fear. "He's dying. And he's calling for you."
My heart stopped.
"But if I go to him—if we're connected—won't that make it worse?"
"I don't know." Theron grabbed my arm. "All I know is he's dying, and your name is the only word he's saying."
I looked at Lyra, terrified. If I went to him, I might kill him. But if I didn't go, he might die anyway.
"What do I do?" I whispered.
"You go," Lyra said firmly. "Because if there's even a chance you can help him, you have to try."
Theron pulled me down the hallway, toward the Duke's chambers. With every step, I felt that warmth in my chest growing stronger. The connection I didn't understand.
The bond that might kill us both.
When we burst through the Duke's door, I saw him convulsing on the bed, the black curse mark on his neck glowing red and spreading across his skin like poison.
His eyes found mine, and even through his pain, I saw relief.
"Seraphine," he gasped. "I can't... fight it... anymore."
I ran to his side without thinking, grabbing his hand.
The moment our skin touched, golden light exploded from my body and slammed into his curse mark.
The Duke screamed.
And somewhere far away, in a palace made of clouds, a woman smiled.
"Perfect," Goddess Celestia whispered. "The trap is working exactly as planned."