The days that followed Arin's attack folded into each other like wet pages left out in the rain. Nothing felt whole anymore. Not Elara. Not Arin. Not their marriage. Not even Eldoria itself.
Arin's recovery was slow—painfully slow. The healers said the blow should have killed him instantly. But curses are greedy; they don't allow death to come kindly. They force their victims to linger, to suffer before they fall.
So Arin lived. But the man who opened his eyes that morning was not the same man Elara married.
His once-warm gaze now held a strange emptiness, like he recognized the world but did not feel connected to it. And when Elara reached for him—for the comfort of his presence—the curse carved a thin line of pain through her chest, warning her that even love itself was forbidden.
Still, she remained by his side.
Not because she wasn't afraid.
Not because the curse had loosened its grip.
But because she knew Arin was trying—fighting—to hold onto himself.
Some mornings she caught him staring at his hands, trembling, whispering apologies to no one. Other times, he jolted awake screaming, believing he was still swinging that cursed blade at the shadow that wore her mother's face.
The guilt ate him alive.
And the curse fed on it.
---
One night, several days after the attack, Arin sat by the window, watching the moon carve silver across the lake. Elara approached gently, careful not to startle him. His shoulders stiffened when he sensed her presence, but he didn't turn.
"Arin… do you want to talk?" she asked softly.
He exhaled—a long, hollow sound.
"I hurt you," he whispered. "I don't know how to live with that."
"You didn't hurt me," she said, sitting a few steps behind him. She could no longer sit too close; the curse punished every act of tenderness with sharp, tearing pain. "The curse did."
Arin shook his head. "My hands… my body… it was me. I remember raising the sword. I remember wanting to protect you, but I couldn't tell who the enemy was. I couldn't even recognize your voice."
His voice cracked, and he covered his face with his hands.
"Elara… I'm becoming a danger to you."
She swallowed hard. "You're not."
"I AM!" he shouted, then lowered his voice immediately, horrified by his own outburst. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm—"
"You don't have to apologize," she murmured. "You're hurting."
"No… I'm changing." His eyes glistened with fear—real, raw fear. "I feel it inside me. Something dark, something watching through my own eyes. I'm terrified of what I might become."
Elara's heart tightened.
There it was—the truth he had been holding back since the night of the attack.
"Arin… the curse won't win. We will find the oracle. We will break it. We'll—"
"Elara…" he said suddenly, voice shaking. "There's more."
She froze. "More?"
He turned toward her slowly, his expression haunted.
"I remember something from that night," he said. "A voice. A woman's voice."
Her blood ran cold.
"What did she say?"
He swallowed hard. "She said, 'The curse is not what binds you… she is.'"
Elara's breath caught.
"She…?"
Her?
Who was the voice talking about?
Arin looked at her with fear in his eyes—fear for her, not of her.
"I need to know what that means," he whispered. "Elara, what if this curse is tied to you?"
The words struck her like a blade.
"No," she said firmly. "This curse came from your mother's death. From your village's rituals. From the blood oath you told me about."
But Arin shook his head.
"I'm not so sure anymore."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees—long, low, mournful. Like something ancient was calling their names.
Arin stood slowly, breathing hard as if the very air weighed too much for his lungs.
"I don't want to hurt anyone else," he said. "I won't let this curse turn me into a monster. Not to you. Not to anyone."
"What are you saying?" Elara asked, dread crawling up her spine.
"I'm saying I need answers," he said. "And the only place where those answers live is the Ruins of Elyndor."
Elara's eyes widened. "Arin, no. That place is forbidden. Even the elders say—"
"I know what they say," he cut in. "But I can't wait anymore. The curse is getting stronger. I feel it. Every night it whispers things. It shows me faces. It…" He paused, looking away in shame. "It tempts me."
Elara's heart broke.
"Then I'm going with you," she said.
"No." His voice was sharp, pained. "Elara, you can't. If that voice was telling the truth—if you're somehow connected to this curse—then going together might feed it even more."
She stepped closer despite the pain burning her chest.
"I don't care. I won't leave you to fight this alone."
"Please," he whispered. "If anything happened to you—if the curse used me again—I… I wouldn't survive it."
She saw the truth in his eyes. He meant every word.
He would rather die than risk hurting her again.
"Elara…" he said softly. "Let me go ahead. Just for one night. I'll return by morning. I promise."
Promises.
In Eldoria, they were sacred.
But curses had a way of breaking promises long before dawn.
She shook her head, tears gathering.
"I'm coming with you, Arin. You can't stop me."
He stared at her for a long moment, the moonlight catching the fear in his eyes.
Then slowly… painfully… he nodded.
"Then we face whatever waits for us," he whispered, "together."
The wind fell eerily silent.
The shadows outside their cottage trembled, as if aware of what was coming.
And far away, deep within the Ruins of Elyndor, something ancient stirred—
awake for the first time in decades.
Watching.
Waiting.
Their journey had begun.