Morning light spilled across the floor, pale and uncertain. Dust floated in the quiet air like suspended ash.
Lucian sat at the edge of the bed, his palms still faintly marked with black veins.
Seraphina stood near the window, her cloak fallen to the floor, eyes fixed on the sunrise as if it might wash away the centuries between them.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Finally, he broke the silence.
> "Tell me the truth."
She turned slowly. "Truth is dangerous."
> "So is ignorance." His voice was calm, but his fingers trembled where they gripped the bedpost. "I saw fragments last night—fire, temples, a sword. And you. Always you."
Seraphina's lips parted as if to deny it, but the exhaustion in her eyes betrayed her.
> "Then the curse is showing you what it wants you to remember."
> "And what does it want?"
> "To finish what we started."
---
She walked toward him, each step measured. When she reached him, she lifted his hand and turned it palm-up. The sigil there glowed faintly, reacting to her touch.
> "A thousand years ago," she began, voice soft, "you were no prince. You were a general—Lucian of the Silver Host. You led an army that defied the gods themselves."
> "And you?"
> "I was the High Oracle of Lumeris. My duty was to destroy you."
Lucian gave a humorless smile. "And instead?"
> "Instead, I loved you."
The words hung between them, raw and unguarded.
> "I betrayed the heavens," she continued, "and you betrayed your crown. We swore an oath in secret—that even death wouldn't part us."
> "A promise of eternity," he murmured.
> "Yes. But eternity demands a price. When the gods found us, they turned our vow into punishment. Each lifetime, we find each other again… and lose everything again."
Her gaze fell to their joined hands. "Each time, the curse wakes through blood and memory. Each time it ends with one of us dead."
---
Lucian rose slowly. "So all of this—the dreams, the mark—it's our own promise eating us alive."
> "Exactly."
> "Then why not let it end? Why seek me out again?"
Seraphina's eyes flicked to his. "Because even a curse remembers love. And because I thought this life might be different."
> "And is it?"
> "I don't know yet," she whispered.
---
For a long while, only the wind answered them. Then Lucian stepped closer, close enough that the air between them shivered.
> "If our curse was born from a promise," he said, "then maybe another promise can break it."
> "You think you can outswear the gods?"
> "I think I can love you enough to try."
Her breath hitched. "Don't," she said quickly. "The curse feeds on those words. Every confession makes it stronger."
But he didn't move away.
> "Then let it feed," he murmured. "I've starved long enough."
Seraphina's composure cracked for the first time. The woman who had walked through centuries, who had carried the weight of memory alone, suddenly looked very small, very human.
She turned her face away. "You don't understand. Each time we fall in love, one of us dies sooner. It's how the curse resets."
Lucian reached out, his hand brushing her cheek. "Then I'll make sure it's me this time."
Her eyes snapped to his, shining with fury. "Don't you dare. You think dying for love is noble? I've watched you die five times, Lucian. There's no poetry left in it."
Silence. Then his thumb traced the edge of her jaw. "Then teach me how to live for it instead."
---
A faint shimmer passed through the room—the mark on his palm flickering brighter, responding to something neither of them could name.
Seraphina's breath trembled. "You're making the curse stir again."
> "Or maybe," he said softly, "I'm making it remember why it began."
Outside, the bells of Valemire rang noon. Inside, two ancient souls stood between fate and defiance, the air around them trembling with magic that smelled of roses and ash.
For the first time in lifetimes, Seraphina didn't step back.
> "Fine," she whispered. "But if we're rewriting destiny… then we do it together."
Lucian smiled faintly. "Together, then."
The mark flared between their joined hands—bright, alive, and frighteningly beautiful.
The curse had awakened again.
But this time, so had hope.