The storm raged through the jungle, lashing at tents and whipping trees into submission. Inside the infirmary tent, the lamplight flickered against canvas walls. Elara sat beside Damon, who stared straight ahead, jaw clenched tight, fists resting on his knees.
"You didn't tell me," she whispered, breaking the silence. "That he's your brother."
"Half-brother," Damon replied coldly. "It's not something I care to remember."
"But he does."
Damon didn't respond at first. His silence stretched like a blade across both of them.
"My father had many sons. Too many. Most were left behind like Kieran. I was chosen—by blood, by duty, by the curse that binds my family. He wasn't. He resents me because I lived the life he believes he deserved."
"You speak of a curse," she said slowly. "He mentioned it. And something in his eyes… he knew something I didn't."
Damon's shoulders tensed. Then, quietly, "There's a reason I never let anyone close. Not even my men. Not until Ajani. Not until you."
Elara's heart beat faster.
"The curse is not just on me. It's in me," Damon said. "It was passed down from our ancestor—General Kessler, the first warlord of the Blood Reign. His pact with the gods gave him unmatched strength, but it came with a price. Every firstborn male of our bloodline inherits the same power. And the same doom."
"A doom?"
"When we kill in rage, we lose control. We become something else. A beast in human skin. Kieran wasn't chosen because he couldn't handle it. The rage consumed him early. He nearly burned down an entire village before he was locked away."
Elara gasped. "And you? Have you ever—?"
"Yes," he said darkly. "But only once. And I swore it would never happen again."
She touched his hand, her fingers trembling. "What would happen if you lost control now?"
He turned to her, eyes haunted. "I'd stop being Damon. I'd become something even The Whisperer fears."
A gust of wind shook the tent. The storm outside seemed to echo his warning.
---
Meanwhile, in the darkest edge of the jungle, Kieran stood before a blackened tree, its bark charred and roots split from the earth. The air was thick with sulfur.
"Show yourself," he whispered.
A figure emerged from the mist. Robes of ash. Eyes like coals. The Whisperer.
"You made contact with them," the creature said. "Too soon."
"I planted the seed," Kieran replied. "She's confused. He's unstable. You'll get what you want. Just give me what I was promised."
"And what was that?"
"Power. Enough to become more than Damon ever was."
The Whisperer's face curled into a smile. "You want power. But I see something else. You want her. Still."
Kieran looked away. "She chose him. But I can make her regret it."
"You cannot command love. But you can corrupt it."
The tree behind them split with a screech. Dark smoke poured from its center.
The Whisperer reached into the shadows and pulled out a sword. It pulsed with red and black runes, humming with curses from centuries ago.
"Take it," the creature said. "It will obey you. But it will also consume you."
Kieran grinned and reached out. As his hand closed over the hilt, the sky overhead cracked open.
---
Back at camp, Damon stood before the fire pit, lost in thought. Ajani approached from the shadows.
"You should rest," Ajani said. "You haven't slept."
"Sleep is a luxury we can't afford anymore."
Ajani glanced at Elara, who sat curled up nearby, reading from an old journal. "You care about her."
Damon didn't answer.
"She's changing you. You're no longer the man who gave orders and forgot names."
Damon looked up. "She believes I can be better. That scares me more than any curse."
Ajani smiled faintly. "Then fight for her. Before Kieran poisons her heart completely."
---
That night, Elara couldn't sleep. She tossed in her cot, the journal still in her hands. It was her mother's. The same journal that had returned with her to the 1980s. There were pages in it now that she swore hadn't existed before.
One entry stood out:
> "To love a cursed man is to walk on the edge of a sword. But I did. And I would again. Even if it meant dying beside him."
It was dated 1892. And signed… "Elara Dane."
She sat up, breath caught in her throat. Her name.
She flipped through the journal—more entries, different years, different wars. Elara Dane. Over and over.
"This isn't a coincidence," she whispered. "I've lived this life before."
She grabbed her coat and rushed out into the storm, barefoot across the mud, toward the relic hut where the medallion was kept.
Lightning lit up the sky. As she reached the door, it swung open by itself.
Inside, the medallion floated above the altar. Glowing. Vibrating. Calling.
She reached for it—and her mind was ripped from her body.
---
Visions.
Battles. Blood. A woman with her face dying in the arms of a man who looked like Damon.
Another war. Another lifetime. Her again. Always Damon. Always the same ending—death, betrayal, sacrifice.
She screamed, the visions overwhelming her.
---
Damon awoke with a start. Something was wrong.
He ran from the tent, following a pulse he could feel in his veins. Ajani followed close behind.
They found Elara collapsed in the relic hut, eyes rolled back, the medallion hovering inches from her chest.
Damon pushed through the barrier of magic and caught her in his arms. The medallion dropped like a stone.
"Elara!" he shouted. "Come back!"
She opened her eyes slowly. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I saw everything," she whispered. "We've lived this… over and over. You always die. I always bleed for you. And we never make it."
Damon's expression broke. "Then this time, we change the ending."
"But the curse—"
"I'll face it. I'd rather become a monster than lose you again."
She grabbed his face. "Don't say that."
Ajani cleared his throat. "We have company."
They turned. At the hut's entrance stood Kieran—soaked, armed, and wearing the cursed blade given by The Whisperer.
"You found the truth," he said. "Good. Because now it's time for the reckoning."