Maria's PoV
The apothecary's shop smelled of dried herbs and old parchment.
An elderly woman—bent with age, fingers gnarled from decades of precise work—examined the arrow still lodged in my chest with clinical detachment.
"Cursed," she said simply. "Dark magic woven into the metal itself."
Garrett stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His presence was solid. Grounding.
"Can you remove it?" he asked.
"Yes." The apothecary's fingers traced around the wound. "The arrow itself will come out cleanly. But the curse..." She shook her head. "That stays. Forever."
My stomach dropped. "What does that mean?"
"It means any time you channel mana—any time you try to use magic—the curse activates. Pain like your blood is boiling. Your nerves catching fire." Her cloudy eyes met mine. "Manageable for small workings, perhaps. But anything substantial will make you wish for death."
The room went very quiet.
I thought about the grimoire. About the enchantments I'd practiced in secret.
About the golden insignia that had once promised me a future as a High Enchanter.
All of it, gone. Locked away behind a wall of agony.
"I'm sorry," the apothecary said. Not unkindly. "If the curse had been fresh, maybe I could have done something. But it's had time to sink into your mana circuits. It's part of you now."
She began preparing tools for the extraction. "I'll give you something for the pain during removal. After that..." She shrugged. "Live carefully. Don't use magic. You'll be fine."
***
The removal took an hour.
I bit down on a leather strap while the apothecary worked, pulling the arrow free with steady hands.
The pain was blinding—white hot and all-consuming—but the draught she'd given me kept me from passing out.
Garrett held my hand the entire time. His grip was steady.
Unshakeable.
When it was finally over—arrow extracted, wound cleaned and bandaged—I sagged against him in exhaustion.
"It's my fault," he said quietly. Voice rough with something that might have been grief. "If I'd been faster. If I'd seen the arrow—"
"Stop." I squeezed his hand. "It was my choice. I don't regret it."
"You should."
"But I don't." I looked up at him. "You saved me. I saved you. We're even."
His jaw worked silently. But he nodded.
***
We traveled north.
Away from the county. Away from Count Haroth's reach.
Toward a village Calla had mentioned in passing—Greyhollow, she'd called it.
Remote.
Isolated.
The kind of place where people didn't ask questions about where you came from.
The journey was long. Difficult.
We had little money. Less supplies. Just what I'd carried in Calla's coin pouch and what Garrett could hunt or forage.
But we survived.
***
One evening, we sat by a small fire.
I was preparing the rabbit Garrett had caught—skinning, gutting, preparing it for cooking.
My hands moved with practiced efficiency despite the exhaustion weighing my limbs.
Garrett sat across from me, sharpening a knife he'd traded for in the last village.
The rhythmic scrape of stone on steel was almost meditative.
"What's that?" I asked, gesturing to the chain around his neck.
It was simple—just tarnished metal links, unremarkable. But he wore it always, never taking it off even to wash.
Garrett's hand moved to touch it unconsciously. "Last thing I have from my mother."
He paused. Then, quietly: "She left me at an orphanage when I was three. This was around my neck. Don't remember her face. Don't remember her voice. Just... this."
The pain in those words was carefully hidden. Buried deep. But I heard it anyway.
I didn't ask more. Some wounds were too old to pick at.
***
The journey continued.
We encountered thieves on a forest road—three men who'd thought we looked like easy targets.
Garrett broke two of them before the third ran.
We took their weapons and supplies and moved on.
Monsters found us in the mountains. A small pack of direwolves, driven by hunger to attack travelers.
Garrett fought them while I hid behind a boulder, clutching a knife and praying.
He won. Always won. But each fight left him with new scars, new wounds that I'd clean and bandage by firelight.
We crossed rivers. Climbed hills. Walked until my feet swell and then kept walking.
And through it all, we grew closer.
Not through words. We weren't people who spoke easily about feelings or fears.
But through actions.
Through time.
Through the simple fact that we kept choosing each other, day after day, when it would have been easier to part ways.
***
One night, I found him staring at the sky.
We'd made camp in a clearing, far from any road. The stars were unusually bright—no clouds, no moon, just endless points of light scattered across darkness.
Garrett sat on a fallen log, neck craned back, lost in thought.
"What are you doing?" I asked, settling beside him.
"Thinking." His voice was distant. "About what I'll do after taking you to the village."
Something cold settled in my chest. "Won't you stay?"
"I can't." He shook his head. "I'm a wanted man. Easy to find if I settle in one place. My presence will only bring trouble for you."
"That's not—"
"It is." His tone was final. "You deserve peace. Safety. A chance to build a life without looking over your shoulder. You won't get that with me around."
Anger flared hot in my chest. "I was the reason we're in such problems! If I hadn't been there—if you hadn't had to save me—you'd still be just a stable keeper! Why are you blaming yourself?"
Garrett said nothing. Just continued staring at the stars like they held answers he couldn't find.
I wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what I saw—that we were stronger together than apart.
But I didn't.
Because he was stubborn as stone.
And I was too tired to fight.
We continued in silence after that. Partners in survival. Nothing more.
At least, that's what we told ourselves.
***