**Two Weeks After the Decision**
Life almost feels normal again. Almost.
I've settled into a new routine—morning meditation with Seraphine to manage the curse's whispers, midday combat training with Master Dren and Kaela, afternoons helping Miren in the healing house or tinkering with Elira in her workshop. The village still stares, but less intensely. The fear is fading into wary acceptance.
The curse, however, isn't fading.
It's growing. Slowly, steadily, like a shadow lengthening as the sun sets. The hunger is constant now—a low-grade need that Nyssa's shadow stone dampens but never eliminates. I've learned to live with it the way you learn to live with chronic pain: acknowledge it, manage it, but never quite forget it's there.
"You're distracted again," Kaela says, her practice sword stopping inches from my face.
I blink, realizing I dropped my guard completely. "Sorry."
"That's the third time this session." She lowers her blade, concerned. "You okay?"
"Just tired."
"You're always tired lately. Is the curse—"
"It's fine. I'm fine. Let's go again."
She doesn't look convinced, but she readies her stance. We've been drilling defensive forms for an hour, and my body protests every movement. But physical exhaustion is better than the alternative: sitting still with nothing to distract from the hunger.
We engage again. Kaela attacks with controlled aggression, her technique refined over months of dedicated training. I defend, blocking and redirecting, using minimum effort for maximum effect—Toren's philosophy.
Then something shifts.
One moment I'm defending normally. The next, my vision tints red. The world sharpens—colors more vivid, sounds crystalline clear. I can hear Kaela's heartbeat, fast and strong. Smell the salt of her sweat, the warmth of her blood beneath skin.
The hunger surges.
*Take. Feed. She's right there.*
I freeze, horrified, as my body moves without conscious thought. My hand shoots forward, grabbing Kaela's wrist with inhuman strength. She yelps in pain and surprise. My other hand reaches for her throat.
"Ren?! What are you—"
Through the red haze, I see her face—confused, then frightened. This is Kaela. My best friend. The girl who's stood by me through everything.
And I'm about to hurt her.
*NO!*
I wrench control back with effort that feels like tearing myself apart. My hands release. I stumble backward, gasping, my vision returning to normal. My gums ache where fangs tried to emerge.
Kaela stares at me, rubbing her wrist. "Ren? What just happened?"
"I—" My voice cracks. "I lost control. The curse. I nearly—"
"But you didn't." She steps closer, cautious but not fleeing. "You stopped yourself."
"Barely." I'm shaking now, adrenaline and horror flooding through me. "Kaela, I could have killed you."
"But you didn't," she repeats firmly. "You stopped. That's what matters."
Master Dren appears from wherever he'd been observing. His mechanical hand clicks as he adjusts his grip on his staff. "Training's over for today. Amaki, go see Seraphine. Now."
I don't argue.
**The Walk Home**
The walk from the training grounds to the temple should take ten minutes. I stretch it to twenty, taking side streets, avoiding crowds. My hands still shake. The curse has never surged like that during the day, in a safe environment, with someone I love.
It's getting stronger. Bolder.
*You can't hide from me forever,* it whispers. *I'm part of you now. Accept it.*
The shadow stone in my pocket pulses with cool energy, pushing back the worst of the hunger. But it's like using a bucket to bail out a sinking ship—helpful, but ultimately insufficient.
I'm so focused on internal struggle that I almost miss the wrongness when I pass near home.
The ley lines above our section of village flicker irregularly. Not the natural pulse I'm used to, but erratic, distressed. Like they're reacting to nearby void corruption.
My enhanced perception sharpens, fear overriding everything else.
Something's wrong at home.
I run.
**The Aftermath**
I round the corner to our house and stop dead.
The front door hangs open, broken. Scorch marks mar the walls—void magic, unmistakable. The small garden Miren tends is trampled, plants withered where corruption touched them.
"Mama?" My voice comes out small, childlike. "Papa?"
No answer.
I force myself forward, every instinct screaming danger. The main room is destroyed—furniture overturned, healing supplies scattered, blood on the floor.
Not a lot of blood. But enough.
"MAMA! PAPA!"
Movement from the back room. I rush there and find Toren.
He's collapsed against the wall, his armor cracked and corroded, his sword broken beside him. A wound across his chest oozes black ichor—void corruption spreading from the strike point like poison in veins.
"Papa!" I drop to my knees beside him. "Papa, what happened? Where's Mama?"
His eyes flutter open, glazed with pain. "Ren... you're safe... thank the Ancients..."
"What happened? Where's Mama?!"
"Cult... ambush... they were waiting..." Each word costs him obvious effort. "Took her... said to tell you..." He coughs, black blood flecking his lips. "They want you. Umbral Hollow. Come alone or she dies."
Horror crashes over me like ice water. "We have to get you to a healer—"
"No time. Corruption's... spreading." His hand grabs my arm with surprising strength. "Don't go, Ren. It's a trap. They want you... to turn you or kill you."
"I can't just abandon her!"
"You can't... save her alone. Get help. The council... Seraphine..." His grip weakens. "Promise me... don't let the darkness... win..."
His eyes close. His breathing becomes shallow, labored.
The void corruption spreads across his chest visibly now, black tendrils reaching toward his heart. Minutes, maybe. An hour at most before it reaches something vital.
Normal healing can't touch void corruption. Miren tried with Nyssa—it took weeks and specialized techniques just to stabilize. Toren doesn't have weeks. He has minutes.
Unless...
The curse stirs, recognizing opportunity.
*I can heal him,* it whispers. *Void corruption responds to void magic. Like calls to like. Let me in fully, and I can save him. Save them both.*
"No," I whisper. "That's not—you're lying—"
*Am I? You felt it during the surge. Light and shadow together. The curse can touch what your gift cannot. Save him, Ren. Or watch your father die while your mother suffers in darkness.*
I stare at Toren's pale face, at the corruption spreading, at the blood on the floor. My hands clench into fists.
If I embrace the curse, I might save them. But I might lose myself completely.
If I resist, they both die while I stand here helpless.
Some choice.
"Ren?" Toren's voice is barely audible. "Whatever... you're thinking... don't. Promise me..."
But I can't promise that. Not when his life is bleeding away. Not when Mama is suffering in enemy hands.
The curse rises within me, eager, hungry, offering terrible power with open arms.
And standing in that ruined room, watching my father die, knowing my mother faces worse—
I make my choice.
I reach for the darkness.