The car stopped at the Hawkbane estate.
Avon glanced at the cluster of lights ahead. It was already past ten. Both doors opened, and he and Rheia stepped out.
Freya, Arya, and Ethan hurried down the steps, worry carved into their faces.
"Rheia!" Arya's voice cracked as she rushed forward. "Where were you? I called both of you, and no one answered."
Avon spoke before Rheia could. "She came to me from the party and fainted for a while. I took her to the hospital—just to be sure. Nothing serious."
Relief softened Freya's face. "Are you alright now, dear?"
"Yeah." Rheia nodded, her voice flat and her eyes lowered.
Freya leaned closer, studying her. "Any problem?"
"No. Nothing." Rheia lifted her head just enough to meet her eyes before looking away again.
"Where's your dress?" Arya's sharp gaze swept over her.
"It got dirty. I found her something else to wear," Avon answered quickly.
Arya smirked, arms crossing. "Figures. No wonder she looks like a boy."
Ethan stepped forward, blocking Avon's path. Halfway through the door, he paused. He leaned just close enough for only Avon to hear.
"Mind telling me why there are bloodstains under that bridge?" His voice was low, almost casual. "Right where you parked?"
Avon didn't flinch. "I don't know what you're talking about." The words slid out cool, as if the question weren't worth his breath.
"Then I guess everything's fine." Ethan's eyes flicked toward Rheia. "I must be leaving. Please tell Uncle Edward I asked for him, Aunt Freya." A glance sharp enough to cut—before he stepped outside.
"Thanks, Ethan. Thanks for bringing my sister back," Avon said, his voice steady.
"Anytime, Avon." Ethan's nod was slight.
A moment later, the roar of his bike carried him into the night.
Rheia moved toward her bedroom. Before stepping in, she glanced back at Avon—eyes wide, like a fawn caught in a predator's gaze from the stairs.
Avon turned away and headed for his room.
Rheia locked the room and sat on the bed. She couldn't believe what had happened in the last hours. Everything went through her mind like a dream.
She looked at her palms; they were still shivering.
Curse…
Are you the reason for the attack?
Morvenheir…
You will leave…
The words Avon told her swirled in her mind. A tear fell from her eye. But she didn't move—she sat there like a stone.
--------------------
With a sigh, Avon dropped onto the bed, the weight of the night pressing hard against his chest. Out of habit, his hand slid into his pocket, searching for his phone.
Nothing.
Shit…
Avon pushed up and strode down the hall, quiet enough not to wake the others. He slipped outside, the night air biting against his skin.
He tore through the car—seats, floor, glovebox. His hands moved rough, impatient. No phone.
The estate lights faded in his mirror, the road stretching back toward the silence he'd tried to outrun.
The road carried him back to the bridge.
Deserted now, nothing but the hush of water shifting below.
He stopped at the stairs, scanning the dark. He couldn't find any.
Relief cut short—by another sound.
Ding.
A notification. Faint, from the corner.
Avon turned. A phone lay half-hidden near the stone wall, screen cracked, glow spilling dim across the dirt. He crouched and picked it up.
The wallpaper lit.
Rheia, standing between her parents, their arms wrapped around her shoulders. All three smiling.
A Rheia he didn't know.
The sight unsettled him. The girl in the picture and the one in his house felt like strangers—two lives wearing the same face.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, poured some liquid from the can in his hand onto the bloodstains on the ground, and walked back toward the car.
As he drove, a thought clung to him, heavy and unshakable.
He pulled over, the car rolling to a quiet stop. The window slid down, letting in a slow, cool breeze.
Avon leaned back against the seat, eyes shut, the night pressing in around him.
What am I doing?
She literally saved me.
I couldn't even hold the sword—if she hadn't stepped in, I'd be gone.
It's like I owe her.
No… no, she was the reason for the figh—
No. It was me…
Avon dragged in a breath and let it spill out heavy.
I don't know what to decide.
My family's on the line… but so is she.
Shit… am I wrong here?
--------------------
He drove on. The road smeared past in streaks, but his thoughts stayed locked on her. He wasn't sure how long he'd been driving.
The world outside had thinned to blur and silence.
Up ahead, the headlights caught a weathered sign:
Veymora River – Old Bridge.
As he passed, something flickered at the edge of his vision. A figure by the roadside—pale, drifting. A ghost.
Is that… a ghost?
He blinked it off, forced his gaze forward. But the shape moved—step by step—toward the bridge. His chest tightened, an intrusive thought clawing in.
Wait—could that be her?
Avon's eyes widened. Dread coiled through him, heavy and certain, as if he already knew what was coming.
Just before the estate gates, he yanked the wheel, tires biting into wet asphalt. The car swung hard, headlights slicing the dark as he tore back down the road—straight for the bridge.
From afar, he saw her.
A lone figure, walking the edge. Slipping sideways toward the center.
He slammed the brakes, tires screaming against wet asphalt, and threw the door open.
Rheia stood at the midpoint of the bridge. Her hair clung to her face, tears glinting in the wash of his headlights.
"Please… don't come near me." Her voice was thin, breaking.
She stepped onto the narrow concrete ledge at the side, toes curling over the edge. Below, the Veymora roared—white water crashing mercilessly against the rocks.
"No… wait—" Avon's voice cracked through the river's roar as he reached his hand toward her.
Rheia didn't move. Her shoulders trembled, hair whipping wild in the night wind.
"I can't be the reason for more deaths," she said, her voice thin but steady. "As you said… those creatures won't let me live. They'll come after the people I love."
Her eyes slipped shut.
"Goodbye, Avon."
And she stepped off the edge.
Avon lunged. His hand missed her arm but clamped around her legs. The world tilted—the roar of the Veymora rose like a scream beneath them.
"I don't want to live like this!" Rheia's voice ripped out of her, wild and shaking as she kicked at him.
He gritted his teeth, muscles burning, and hauled upward. Her heel struck his shoulder, but he didn't let go. Inch by inch, he dragged her back over the edge until they both toppled onto the concrete.
Again, she went for the concrete wall, but—
Avon moved faster. He seized both her wrists and forced them down against his chest, pinning them there as if to hold her together.
His breath came harsh, eyes locked on hers.
"Stop," he said, voice low and hard, the river still roaring below.
She sagged in his grip, body trembling. Tears streaked her cheeks in uneven lines.
Her lips quivered, breath hitching between sobs; thin strands of saliva clung to the corners of her mouth and broke with each ragged gasp.
Avon held her wrists pinned but didn't speak.
He didn't know what to say. His chest rose and fell against hers, heart hammering against her hands.
A breeze rolled over the bridge, curling around them like a ghost. For an instant, it felt as though the night itself was trying to comfort her.
She dragged in a breath, hiccupping through the last of her sobs. Her eyes met his—raw, red-rimmed, glistening.
"I… I don't wanna die, Avon."
The bridge stood in silence once more, the river below whispering its endless roar into the dark.
--------------------
Elsewhere—
An office. Books lined the walls. A man in a white suit sat behind a wide desk, a half-full glass catching the lamplight as if the room belonged to him.
Two men were shoved inside. One steadied the other; the second stumbled forward, breathing ragged, palms thudding against the table.
"Tell him what you saw." The steady one's voice was flat.
The shaken man swallowed. "I saw—" He straightened, eyes skittering to the shelves, then met the other's gaze. "I saw the curse."
"Continue." The man in the suit tapped the desk with one finger.
"But I don't know who she is. I only got the car plate." The words came out rough.
The seated man pushed a pen and paper toward him. "Write."
Fingers trembling, the witness scribbled the plate number and slid the note back across the wood.
"Write it down—here."
His hand shook as he copied the digits.
"Here's what you do," the man in the suit said, voice colder now. "You say nothing. Pretend you never saw a thing—and leave."
A quiet chime cut the room. The witness glanced down; his phone glowed. A notification: 10,000 credited—account 7436.
Relief eased his face; a crooked, grateful smile crept in.
The man in the white suit watched him. "If this is a play," he said, slow and flat, "you won't see another sunrise."