The wind clawed at the broken stones of the watchtower.
It hissed through the gaps in the old mortar, slid under loose tiles, and spilled into the upper chamber where Rodrik Vanhart sat alone, hunched over a rough-hewn table.
The tower had once guarded Vanhart's eastern ridge—early frost patrols, monster-watch, border signals. Now it guarded only one thing:
A man who no longer trusted the land that bore his name.
Rodrik's fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the cup beside him. Steam barely rose from the bitter concoction inside—it had cooled while he was thinking. The liquid sloshed as his hand shook, and a few drops stained the edge of the map laid out in front of him.
He cursed under his breath and set the cup down.
His knuckles were pale.
Skin stretched thin over bone.
The once-proud frame of Vanhart's eldest son had hollowed. His shoulders, still broad beneath his dark coat, carried the shape of former strength—but his neck showed faint cords beneath thinning flesh. Every so often, a muscle at his jaw twitched without warning.
His eyes, however—
They were still sharp.
Dark.
Burning.
Like coals that refused to die, even as the brazier itself crumbled.
He stared at the map.
He did not see the lines marking surveillance routes, paths to retreat, merchant roads to intercept.
He saw her face instead.
Not Sera.
Lysenne.
The fragile girl with quiet eyes and legs shattered beneath the weight of a duel that was never meant to be hers.
He clicked his tongue.
"Annoying," he muttered. "Memory is the most useless curse."
His hand moved to his chest.
Behind the layers of fabric, beneath bone and scar, something gnawed.
Slow.
Constant.
A faint, consuming heat, like embers eating away at damp wood.
He knew its name now.
He hadn't—once.
Before the Curse Had a Name
There was a time when Rodrik Vanhart stood beneath banners, not inside ruins.
When people didn't whisper his name like a warning.
When his silhouette at the end of the hall brought measuring eyes and cautious respect.
Not contempt.
Not suspicion.
He remembered that time well.
Maybe too well.
He remembered her even more clearly.
Not Sera.
Elira Malloren.
Lorian's elder sister.
He remembered the first time he'd seen her—standing under the pale light of a winter banquet hall, silver embroidery glinting faintly at the hem of her dark gown. Her hair pinned with cool precision, her posture perfect. Her gaze had brushed across the nobles before her, calm and critical.
It had crossed him—
And moved on.
As if he were nothing more than another ornament on the wall.
Rodrik's jaw had clenched that day, though he'd smiled.
Count Vanhart's heir.
Promising, they said.
Disciplined.
Well-read.
Firm with his blades.
Suitor material.
His advances had been measured at first. Respectful. He'd sent proper gifts, spoken the proper words, extended the proper attentions. He'd calculated every step on that intricate courtly board.
She had responded.
Coolly.
Politely.
Without warmth.
And when a formal proposal was finally woven into words and sealed?
She had refused.
Not with cruelty.
That would have been easier.
Not with laughter.
That would have given him fire.
She refused with a sentence so gentle it tasted like poison.
"Lord Rodrik, you are… reliable. But I do not see the future I want at your side."
He'd bowed.
He'd smiled.
He'd kept his voice calm as he replied:
"Of course. We all seek what suits our path best."
He hadn't clenched his fists until later.
Alone.
He hadn't broken the wine glass until the night ended.
Or the mirror.
Or the table.
Or the chair.
The worst part wasn't the rejection.
It was seeing, later, how she looked at other men.
A touch of genuine amusement.
A trace of warmth.
Things she had never given him.
And then—
She died.
Not by his hand.
Not by his plot.
Just… gone.
A border raid gone wrong.
A miscalculation by some commander.
Malloren grieved.
The Empire made bored noises of regret.
Rodrik memorized the date.
Not out of sympathy.
Out of a colder, more bitter thing.
"Elira Malloren," he whispered now, in the ruined tower. "You said I was reliable."
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh.
"So I proved you right."
The Niece, the Match, the Seed of Revenge
It had been a simple, innocent thing on the surface.
A friendly match between heirs.
House Vanhart.
House Malloren.
Lorian Malloren's daughter versus Sera Vanhart.
Nine-year-old girls.
Equal in age.
Unequal in blood.
Sera, the only daughter of Count Vanhart—Rodrik's younger brother.
Lysenne, the cherished child of Lorian Malloren.
Rodrik would have been content, he told himself, to let the match proceed fairly.
Let Sera win on her merits.
Show that Vanhart's blood still held strength.
But when he heard Malloren…
When he heard daughter…
When he saw that vexing combination of chance and symbol—
Something inside him tilted.
Why should he suffer alone for Elira's refusal? Why should House Malloren walk unmarked, with smiles and trade and stability?
Why should Lorian—Elira's beloved younger brother, the one she'd always softened around—continue on without a scar to remember her with?
Revenge, once whispered, wound itself around him like smoke.
At first, he only meant to train Sera harder.
Stronger.
Better.
So she could overwhelm the Malloren girl and remind them of their place.
He was still sane then.
Still… almost kind.
He took Sera under his wing.
At ten, she looked at him with bright eyes, eager to prove herself. She believed his words when he told her she had talent. She swallowed his lies about wanting to make her "the pride of Vanhart."
He drilled her in footwork, blade precision, reflex.
He watched her grow sharper.
Faster.
But in his mind, the duel was no longer just friendly.
It became an altar.
He wanted a mark.
On Malloren.
On Lorian.
On the memory of Elira's smug, calm rejection.
He wanted to carve something she could not take away.
Even if she was dead.
But even that wasn't enough.
Not when the world's rules insisted on fairness.
Not when Lysenne, fragile as she was, still stood technically even before the duel began.
No.
He wanted more than victory.
He wanted humiliation.
He wanted permanent consequence.
The Market and the Cloaked Man
It had been an ordinary day.
The kind that changed everything.
The winter market in the capital town was bustling—vendors shouting prices, steam rising from food stalls, guards weaving through crowds, cloth and iron and leather overlapping in loud color.
Rodrik walked through it with practiced disdain.
Cloak over his shoulders, house crest muted but visible.
He was there for something simple.
Better equipment for Sera.
Weighted gear.
Resistance bands.
Quality leather for grip.
He had the list written on a folded parchment in his sleeve.
He passed a stall selling talismans, another hawking cheap healing tonics, another offering dubious charm-engraved rings.
All noise.
All distraction.
He turned toward the Smiths' Row.
That was when the shadow moved.
A figure stepped out from the gap between two stalls, as if the crowd parted for him without knowing.
Cloaked.
Hood low.
Hands visible—slender, wearing no rings.
"Lord Rodrik Vanhart," the stranger said.
Rodrik's eyes sharpened, measuring.
He had not introduced himself.
Rodrik's hand drifted slightly toward the hilt at his waist.
"Yes?" he replied coolly. "If you are selling something, you'll have better luck with commoners."
The figure chuckled softly.
It was a dry sound—like parchment folding.
"I do not sell," the man said. "I offer."
Rodrik began to move past him.
"I am not interested."
The stranger's next words halted him.
"Not even," he said, voice soft and precise, "in the power to ensure your niece destroys the Malloren girl?"
Rodrik froze.
Very slowly, he turned his head.
Their eyes did not fully meet—the stranger's stayed half-shrouded under the hood—but the meaning was clear.
"…You know of that duel," Rodrik said.
"Yes," the man replied. "I know more than that."
He stepped closer, stopping just within arm's reach—far enough that Rodrik's hand could still reach his sword, close enough that their conversation wouldn't leak.
"I know of your… disappointment," the stranger continued, "with a certain lady of House Malloren."
Rodrik's jaw tightened.
"And I," the man said, voice almost pleasant, "know a way to stain that house so deeply, the echo of it will never fade."
The market sounds dimmed.
Rodrik stared at the cloak.
"…What do you want?" he asked.
The man's hands spread slightly.
"Only to cooperate," he said.
The Potion
The small vial gleamed faintly when the stranger unveiled it in the shadowed back of a closed stall.
It was the color of old blood and molten gold swirling together—thick and sluggish, clinging to the glass. When shaken, it did not behave like any liquid Rodrik recognized.
It… pulsed.
As if it had a heartbeat.
"An enhancer," the cloaked man said. "She will grow stronger, faster. Muscles denser. Reflexes sharper. During the duel, she will move beyond her limit."
Rodrik's eyes narrowed.
"At what cost?"
The stranger chuckled.
"Suspicious, as expected of Vanhart's heir," he murmured. "But wise."
He tilted the vial, letting the viscous fluid coat the glass.
"The cost," he said, "is manageable."
"Pain," he elaborated. "A strain on the body. Some fever. But no immediate collapse. She will survive. She will merely… imprint herself."
He smiled thinly.
"Imagine your niece's blade shattering the Malloren girl's defense. Imagine bones broken. Pride wounded. A stain upon their 'gentle' reputation."
Rodrik's fingers twitched.
The liquid gleamed.
It was too convenient.
Too dangerous.
"Who are you?" Rodrik asked.
The man inclined his head slightly.
"A representative," he said. "Of an organization that appreciates… imbalance."
"I am not a fool," Rodrik said. "Power with no cost does not exist."
"Power always has cost," the stranger agreed. "But cost can be deferred. Arranged. Redirected."
He held the vial out.
"Take it. Or don't. Others will."
Rodrik stared.
Then looked away.
His jaw clenched.
Elira's calm rejection echoed in his memory.
Lorian's easy endurance.
House Malloren's quiet, enduring respect.
Slowly, Rodrik shook his head.
"No," he said. "I will not risk my niece on something unverified."
The stranger seemed unsurprised.
"Then perhaps," he murmured, "you will give me a moment more."
He produced another vial.
This one already open.
Before Rodrik could react, the man tipped a thread of its contents into the throat of a caged animal behind the stall—a small, frail creature with patchy fur and dull eyes.
Rodrik frowned.
The beast convulsed.
Then, within breaths, its muscles bulged, its eyes sharpened, its body straining against the cage with a force that had not been there before. The metal groaned. In seconds, the creature broke the bars.
Rodrik instinctively shifted back, hand moving toward his blade.
But the man flicked his wrist—
And a symbol briefly glowed on the back of his hand.
The animal collapsed.
Dead.
Just like that.
"Too much power," the cloaked man said calmly, "given to something too weak."
He wiped his hand casually on a cloth.
"Your niece is not weak," he said.
Rodrik stared at the broken cage.
At the still body.
"At what cost?" Rodrik repeated quietly.
The man's eyes glinted beneath the hood.
"Life," he said simply.
Rodrik's body went still.
"Not immediately. Not visibly. But faster. Gradually. A burning of the wick at both ends."
He smiled faintly.
"Of course, we have ways to… maintain the candle."
Rodrik's lips parted.
"You want me indebted," he said.
"Yes," the man replied without disguise.
Silence.
Rodrik's mind moved.
Revenge.
Opportunity.
Risk.
Cost.
Sera's talent.
Lysenne's frailness.
Elira's refusal.
Malloren's unmarked grief.
"Do you care," Rodrik asked softly, "whether the girl survives?"
The man gave a careless shrug.
"So long as the stain remains," he said, "it only matters that one walks and one does not. Three bodies. Two bodies. We deal in outcomes, not sentiment."
Rodrik took a breath.
Then another.
His hand reached out.
He took the vial.
The Match and the Smile
He trained Sera harder.
Gave her the potion in secret, cloaked in lies about "enhancement tonics" and "recovery draughts."
She trusted him.
It was almost boring how easy it was.
On the day of the duel, Rodrik watched from the elevated platform.
The nobles gathered.
Lorian Malloren at the front, Lysenne beside him in a simple dress, clutching a practice sword with hands that trembled despite her efforts to hide it.
Sera stepped into the ring.
Her movements were sharp.
Tense.
Eager.
Rodrik watched as the potion's work unfolded.
Her muscles coiled like steel.
Her movements blurred beyond what her age should allow.
She was not a child in that moment.
She was a weapon.
And she broke Lysenne's legs.
As planned.
The sound of bone snapping carried across the ring like a crack of thunder held too long.
Lysenne's scream tore through the air.
Rodrik watched Lorian's face pale, shock etched across it like a wound carved in stone.
He watched the Malloren guards move in.
He watched the chaos bloom.
He did not move.
A dark satisfaction curled in his chest.
There.
A mark.
Not just on bones.
On reputation.
On the ledger of fate.
House Malloren would never forget this day.
He had carved it into their bloodline.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
The Curse and the Chain
The first time he felt the pain, he dismissed it.
A strange tightness in his chest.
A burn in his bones when he pushed his aura.
He'd taken the potion himself shortly after.
To ensure he would not be overshadowed.
To ensure he, too, would stand above the rest.
Power flooded him.
His strikes grew heavier.
His reflex sharper.
He felt alive.
Alive in a way he'd never been.
Until the ache came.
And did not leave.
He went to healers.
They saw nothing.
He went to priests.
They saw stain.
Whispered of curses.
He went to alchemists.
They saw nothing they understood.
But he knew.
He ran through the memory of the cloaked man's words.
"We have ways to maintain the candle."
He sought him.
He found him.
The man listened calmly as Rodrik explained the symptoms.
Then smiled.
"You accepted the gift," he said.
Rodrik's hands had curled into fists.
"You cursed me."
The cloaked man tilted his head.
"Your word," he replied. "Not mine."
Rodrik's voice dropped.
"I want the antidote."
The stranger's response was soft.
"None exists. Not yet."
Rodrik's blood ran colder.
"What?"
The man shrugged.
"Curses evolve. We are… studying it. Testing it, you could say."
His eyes glinted.
"You are one of our more… promising results."
Rage rose in Rodrik's throat like bile.
"You used me," he hissed.
"Of course," the man said pleasantly. "And now you will continue to be of use."
He leaned closer.
"There are ways to slow the rot. We have techniques. Rituals. Methods. But we do not provide them freely."
His tone lowered.
"From this point on, Rodrik Vanhart… you will work for us."
He spoke the last word with the casual certainty of a sentence.
And Rodrik understood.
Chains.
Invisible.
Binding.
He had damned Sera.
Damned himself.
Damned Lysenne.
And now, he himself was bound.
Not by honor.
Not by house.
By something colder.
"Refuse," the man added, "and we will simply let the curse take its course."
Rodrik glared at him.
"And if I obey?" he asked.
The cloaked man's smile curved.
"Then we will see," he murmured, "how long we can keep you alive."
Now, in the ruined tower, Rodrik sat alone.
Watching his own fingers tremble.
Feeling the curse gnaw.
He exhaled, slow.
His lips tightened into a thin line.
"Lysenne Malloren," he said under his breath. "You were… collateral."
He closed his eyes briefly.
He saw Sera's face.
The moment she realized what she'd done.
The horror.
The tears.
The way she ran.
He pushed the image away.
He saw Elira.
He pushed that away too.
He opened his eyes.
Stared at the stone.
At his own failing hands.
"At least," he whispered to the empty room, "the mark remains."
He pressed his palm against his chest.
The cursed heat burned back.
"And as long as I breathe," he murmured, "they will do what I need them to."
He did not know—
could not know—
that somewhere, a boy who refused the story's original script was already walking toward him.
Not as Vanhart's weakest.
But as the anomaly the curse had never accounted for.