The castle had long fallen silent.
But Saphira couldn't sleep.
She lay curled up on the thin mattress in her chamber, the letter still carved into her mind like a blade. Her parents. The Mark. Their legacy of blood and ruin. Every word had poisoned her thoughts until she felt like she was drowning in them.
Her fingers drifted to her wrist—the cursed mark, faint in the moonlight. It looked the same as always. But tonight, for the first time, it felt heavier.
Then the pain struck.
It was sharp, merciless, searing straight through her veins.
Saphira gasped, clutching her chest. Heat clawed at her ribcage, burning from the inside out. Her wrist blazed like iron pressed to flesh.
She staggered from the bed, biting back a scream, her knees nearly buckling under the weight of the agony.
The Mark was reacting.
It hadn't hurt like this in weeks. Not since the forest. Not since… him.
Her mind clawed for the answer through the haze of pain. And then it hit her.
Killian.
The Mark punished them when they didn't try to kill each other. It had been too long.
Her vision blurred, the world tilting. The burn grew unbearable—her chest, her wrist, her whole body writhing under its command.
And then—just as suddenly as it came—the pain vanished.
Her mark dimmed, pulsing once like a dying ember.
Saphira collapsed on the bed, breathless, trembling.
Her last thought before the darkness swallowed her was a whisper of terror.
If this is what happens when we stop fighting each other… how much time do we even have left?
Then she went still.
Killian jolted awake in his room, breath ragged, as he felt the same pain in his chest. The Mark of Fate burned across his skin like fire carving through flesh, forcing him to clutch at the scar beneath his shirt. His jaw clenched, not from the agony alone, but from the fear that gnawed at him—the thought that she might be enduring the same torment.
Saphira.
He cursed under his breath, swinging his legs off the bed. Sweat slicked his temple, but he ignored it, ignoring the sting that crawled through his veins. His body trembled from the force of the mark's punishment, but his mind wasn't on himself. Not even once. If she was suffering too…
Killian didn't wait.
He pushed himself up, staggering for a heartbeat before regaining balance, and then bolted from his room. His boots echoed through the quiet stone corridors of the keep, every stride fueled less by strength and more by a frantic desperation. His hand brushed the wall as he ran, steadying himself against the dizziness threatening to drag him down, but he never slowed.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, teeth gritted. "Hold on, Saphira."
The double doors of her chamber loomed ahead, and he didn't bother to knock. He shoved them open, breath catching as his eyes swept the dimly lit room.
There she was—curled at the edge of the bed, clutching her side, her face pale as the moonlight that slipped through the window. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead, and her lips parted in shallow, trembling breaths.
For a moment, Killian froze in the doorway, the sight of her cracking something inside him deeper than the burning mark ever could. His chest tightened—not from pain this time, but from raw fear.
He crossed the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside her bed.
"Saphira," he whispered, voice rough, almost breaking. He reached out, hesitating only for a second before brushing his hand against her cheek. Her skin was hot, fevered, yet still unbearably soft. "Talk to me. Look at me."
Her lashes fluttered, but her eyes stayed closed. A low sound escaped her lips, half a groan, half a whimper, and it sent his heart plummeting.
Killian tightened his grip on her hand, pressing it to his chest, where his own mark seared against his ribs. "It's me. I'm here. Whatever this curse is doing to us… I'll carry it if I have to. You won't face it alone."
Without thinking, he pulled the blanket tighter around her fragile frame, his movements gentle despite the urgency clawing at him. He soaked a cloth in cold water from the basin, wringing it out with steady hands—hands that had once killed without hesitation, now trembling only because of her. He pressed it against her forehead, his eyes locked on her as if by sheer willpower he could drag her back from whatever hell haunted her dreams.
The pain in his own chest grew sharper, relentless, like fire gnawing through his ribs. He pressed his palm against the mark beneath his shirt, breathing raggedly, but he did not let himself falter. He couldn't.
Not when she was like this.
"Stay with me, Saphira," he whispered hoarsely, though he knew she couldn't hear him. "If you fall, I'll fall too. You know that, don't you?"
She whimpered faintly, her fingers twitching as though searching for something—or someone. Killian caught her hand instantly, wrapping his larger, calloused fingers around hers.
Her grip was weak, barely there, but it was enough.
He ignored the blaze inside his own body. He ignored the memories of nights he had endured the same burning alone, with no one to notice his muffled cries. He ignored the fear—the fear that maybe this wasn't just the mark punishing her, but something worse.
So he stayed.
All night.
He sat at her bedside, wiping her sweat, whispering quiet reassurances into the dark. When her body trembled, he steadied her. When she gasped for air, he brushed her hair back and murmured her name until her breathing softened again.
The mark kept clawing at him, demanding his attention, but Killian had lived with pain long enough to cage it. His body was used to fire, to scars that refused to fade. He had learned to suffer in silence.
But seeing her like this? That was a torment he could never grow used to.
And so he endured for her.