Elara's POV
Theron stands at the cave entrance, ten feet away, staring into the darkness.
Right at us.
I don't breathe. Don't move. Kael's hand tightens on his blade, body coiled like a spring ready to attack.
Commander! A voice calls from outside. Found tracks heading east!
Theron's eyes narrow. For one horrible second, I'm certain he sees us. Certain he's about to draw his sword and drag us out.
Then he turns away.
East canyon. Move out!
Footsteps retreat. Hoofbeats fade. Voices grow distant.
We wait in frozen silence for what feels like hours but is probably minutes. Finally, Kael releases a shaky breath.
They're gone, he whispers.
I slump against the cave wall, shaking so hard my teeth chatter. Reaction hits all at once—terror, exhaustion, the impossible reality that I'm alive when I should be dead.
Cold? Kael asks quietly.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He unfastens his dark cloak and wraps it around my shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells like sand and something else, something that reminds me he's killed ninety-nine women.
But he saved me.
I pull the cloak tighter anyway.
We can't stay here, Kael says, scanning the cave entrance. Theron's smart. He'll double back when the eastern search fails. We need to move deeper into the Barrens before dawn.
Move where? My voice cracks. There's nothing out here but death.
Death by exposure or death by Temple execution. His smile is bitter. I'll take my chances with the desert.
He helps me stand, and we slip out of the cave into the night. The canyon walls tower above us, blocking out stars, turning everything into shadows and darkness.
We walk for hours. My feet bleed. My body aches. But Kael keeps us moving, navigating by starlight and some internal map I don't understand.
Finally, as dawn breaks pink and gold across the desert, we reach a cluster of ruins—ancient stone structures half-buried in sand. He leads me into one, checking for scorpions and snakes before letting me collapse against the wall.
Sleep, he says. I'll keep watch.
But I can't sleep. Not yet. Not without answers.
Who are you? I demand, my voice hoarse. Really?
Kael doesn't look at me. He sits near the entrance, watching the desert, blade across his knees.
A murderer who failed his job, he says hollowly.
That's not an answer.
It's the only answer that matters.
Anger flares through my exhaustion. You saved my life! You threw away everything—your curse, your freedom, your chance to escape whatever hell you're trapped in. Why?
I told you. You sang—
No. I crawl closer, forcing him to look at me. There's more. Tell me. Please.
His jaw clenches. For a long moment, I think he won't answer.
Then he lifts his hand to his collar and pulls it aside.
Dark marks crawl across his neck—twisted symbols like black veins spreading under his skin. They pulse faintly, as if alive.
The curse needs one hundred kills, Kael says quietly. You were number one hundred. Now I'll transform into a monster.
Ice floods my veins. What?
He lets his collar fall back, hiding the marks. Two weeks. Maybe less. Then the curse completes differently—I become a mindless Shade. A killing machine that murders everything in its path until someone puts me down like a rabid dog.
No. I shake my head. No, there has to be a way to stop it—
There isn't. His voice is flat. Dead. The curse is blood magic. Ancient. Unbreakable. The only way to complete it is one hundred sacrifices. I failed. Now I pay the price.
Horror crashes over me. He saved me knowing it would kill him. Knowing he'd become a monster.
Why? I whisper. Why condemn yourself for me?
Because I'm already condemned. He finally looks at me, and his eyes are full of pain. I've been dead for twelve years, Elara. I just kept breathing because stopping felt like mercy I didn't deserve.
We sit in silence as the sun climbs higher, heating the ruins.
Finally, I find my voice. Tell me. All of it. How this started. Why you became— I can't say the word.
An executioner? Kael's laugh is bitter. I'll tell you. But you'll hate me after.
I'll hate the Temple, I say fiercely. Just talk.
He's quiet for a long moment. Then:
I was fifteen. Bastard son of High Priest Valdris and a temple servant named Lyanna. My father barely acknowledged my existence—I was shameful proof of his sin. My mother was everything. Kind. Gentle. She worked herself to exhaustion to give me a decent life.
His voice cracks.
One day, Valdris summoned me. Alone. He said the Temple needed an executioner—someone to kill the Brides in secret because divine fire was a lie. The sacrifices had always been murder.
My stomach turns.
He gave me a choice, Kael continues, staring at his hands. Become the executioner, bound by blood magic curse, or watch my mother burn alive for the crime of seducing a priest.
That's not a choice, I breathe. That's torture.
It's the choice I made. His voice hardens with self-loathing. I chose the blade. Chose to save one person by killing ninety-nine innocents. The curse was bound that night—kill one hundred Brides or transform into a Shade at the end.
Tears stream down my face. You were fifteen. A child. They forced you
I still chose! He stands abruptly, pacing. Every three months, they brought me a woman. Chained her. And I murdered her. Ninety-nine times, Elara. Ninety-nine women who begged, who cried, who fought.
His hands shake violently.
I remembered their faces. Their names. Every single one. And I killed them anyway because I was too much of a coward to let my mother die instead.
He turns to me, face twisted with anguish. So yes, the Temple made me. But I wielded the blade. Their blood is on my hands.
I stand on shaking legs and walk to him. He flinches when I reach out, as if expecting me to strike him.
Instead, I take his trembling hands in mine.
The priests made you, I say firmly. Valdris gave you an impossible choice and broke you. You're not the monster, Kael. They are.
I killed them—
You were a child! My voice cracks. Fifteen years old, faced with watching your mother burn or becoming a weapon. What choice is that?
I chose wrong. His voice breaks on a sob. I should have let her die. Should have chosen ninety-nine innocents over one guilty woman
Your mother wasn't guilty of anything except being human. I squeeze his hands. And you were a boy trying to save the person you loved. The Temple is guilty. Valdris is guilty. Not you.
He stares at me like I've said something impossible.
How can you— He chokes on the words. How can you touch me? Comfort me? I was going to kill you.
But you didn't. I hold his gaze. You broke twelve years of hell to spare me. That matters, Kael.
For a moment, we stand there, his hands in mine, the desert wind whistling through broken walls.
Then his face goes rigid. He gasps, doubling over.
Kael?
He stumbles backward, clawing at his collar. When he pulls it aside, my blood freezes.
The curse marks have spread.
They cover his entire neck now, crawling up toward his jaw, pulsing with dark energy. As I watch, they spread lower—across his collarbone, down toward his chest.
Growing faster.
No, Kael gasps, horror in his eyes. No, not yet
What's happening?
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see real fear.
The curse is accelerating. Breaking the pattern—saving you instead of killing you, it's speeding up the transformation.
The marks pulse. Spread. Covering more skin with every heartbeat.
Two weeks? I whisper.
Kael's hands shake as he touches his neck, feeling the marks spread.
Not anymore, he says hoarsely. Maybe days. Maybe hours.
His eyes meet mine—desperate, terrified, already saying goodbye.
When the transformation completes, I won't recognize you, Elara. I'll just see prey. And I'll kill you like I killed all the others.
The curse marks pulse again, spreading across his chest like living shadows.
You need to run, Kael whispers. Right now. Before I become the monster I always feared I was.