ARIELLA'S POV
My body is a traitor.
I've spent the entire day trying to relearn how to exist in my own skin, and it's like every muscle received different instructions. My balance is wrong—I keep overcompensating for weight that's no longer there or power that shouldn't exist. My senses scream contradictions: too sharp and too dull simultaneously, catching sounds from hundreds of feet away while missing the branch directly in front of my face.
The curse pulses beneath my skin with its own alien awareness, and I'm starting to suspect it's enjoying my discomfort.
"Focus," Rhys calls from across the clearing. "You're fighting it instead of directing it."
Easy for him to say. His magic obeys him. Mine feels like trying to train a wild animal that speaks a language I don't understand.
He throws another stone at me—the fifth in as many minutes. Instinct screams to dodge, but he's told me repeatedly that's not the point. The point is control.
I close my eyes, reach for the curse the way he showed me, and—
Shadow erupts from my hands, slamming the stone mid-flight. It disintegrates into dust.
"Better," Rhys says, though he doesn't sound particularly impressed. "Again."
"I need a break."
"The curse doesn't take breaks."
"I'm not the curse."
"No, but you're sharing space with it. And right now, it's winning." He picks up another stone, weighing it in his scarred palm. "Your people trained you in combat magic, right? Elven arts, light-based, very elegant?"
"Yes." The word tastes bitter. That magic is gone, burned away when the curse took hold.
"Then stop fighting like an elf. You're something else now."
Something else. Monster. Abomination. Shadow-touched.
The curse flares in response to my anger, shadows leaking from my fingertips like smoke. I clench my fists, trying to pull them back, but they spread further.
"Don't cage it," Rhys says, moving closer. "Channel it. Anger's fine—use it. Just give it direction."
"I don't know how."
"Yes, you do. You've been directing emotions your whole life, princess. Every smile, every diplomatic word, every perfect gesture. This is the same thing, just with different tools."
His words hit harder than they should. He's right—I've spent twenty-three years performing, controlling every visible emotion while burying everything real deep enough that no one could see it.
Maybe the curse isn't so different after all.
I take a breath, reach for the shadows, and instead of fighting them, I shape them. Think of them as extensions of intention rather than invading force.
The darkness coils around my hands like silk ribbons, responsive and almost eager.
"There," Rhys says, and this time there's genuine approval in his voice. "Now hold it."
I hold it. Five seconds. Ten. The shadows remain stable, waiting for instruction.
"Good. Now dismiss them."
That's harder. The curse doesn't want to retreat—it wants freedom, wants to spread and consume and test its boundaries. But I imagine it flowing back into my veins like water returning to its source, and slowly, reluctantly, the darkness obeys.
When I open my eyes, Rhys is watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. You're just a faster learner than I expected."
"I had excellent tutors." The words come out more defensive than intended.
"I'm sure you did. But this isn't the kind of thing you can learn from books." He gestures for me to sit. "Come on. Evening ritual, then we need to talk."
The suppression ritual has become routine with disturbing speed. He carves runes in the earth while I position myself across from him, close enough that our knees nearly touch. His magic rises like smoke, dark and precise, and I channel my chaotic curse-energy into the structured spell.
Our hands don't touch during the ritual—he's careful about that—but I can feel him anyway. The push and pull of his power meeting mine, the way our magics dance around each other, finding balance.
It's intimate in a way I'm not prepared for.
When it's done, we're both breathing harder than the spell should require.
"So," I say, breaking the charged silence. "This Moonlight Crystal. Tell me about it."
Rhys settles back, pulling a waterskin from his pack. He drinks, then passes it to me—another intimacy I'm getting used to, sharing supplies like we're partners instead of reluctant allies.
"The Temple of Silver Night," he begins, "was built by the first elves, before your people decided light and shadow couldn't coexist. The Crystal was their attempt to prove balance was possible—a relic that responds to both powers equally."
"And you think it can cure the curse?"
"I think it can cure anything, if the legends are true. Dark magic gone wrong, elven curses, probably even my unstable magic problem." He flexes his branded hands unconsciously. "But it's not exactly easy to reach."
"The Whispering Mountains."
"Weeks of travel through territories controlled by people who'd love to capture either of us. Then the mountains themselves, which are treacherous even without Guild patrols."
I process this, weighing our chances. They're not good. "Why are you really doing this?"
"I told you—"
"No, the real reason. You could have left me to die. Could have walked away at any point. But you didn't." I meet his eyes across the fire. "Why?"
He's quiet for a long moment, shadows playing across his face. When he speaks, his voice is softer than I've heard it.
"Because I know what it's like to be thrown away. To have everything you are reduced to 'dangerous' or 'corrupted' or 'wrong.'" He stares at his scarred hands. "The Guild branded me so every spell would hurt, a constant reminder that I chose wrong by refusing to become their weapon. And you know what the worst part was?"
"What?"
"I believed them. For three years, I believed I was broken. Unfixable. Better off alone." He looks up, and there's something raw in his expression. "Then you showed up, dying in my forest, and when I saved you, my magic worked properly for the first time in years. You didn't break me more—you balanced me."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "I didn't ask to be anyone's balance."
"Neither did I. But here we are." He attempts a smile that doesn't quite land. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't accidentally destroy a village with uncontrolled shadow magic. Might as well be me."
"How noble."
"I'm a dark wizard living in exile. Nobility's not really my thing."
Despite everything, I almost laugh. There's something about his self-deprecating humor that disarms me, makes the crushing weight of our situation feel slightly more bearable.
"Tell me more about the Crystal," I say. "If we're risking our lives for it, I want to know everything."
So he does. He tells me about the temple's history, about the elves who built it believing balance was sacred before their descendants decided purity was safer. He explains the journey—the towns we'll pass, the dangers we'll face, the supplies we'll need.
His voice is steady, methodical, and I find myself watching the way firelight catches in his dark eyes, the unconscious grace in his scarred hands as he gestures.
I'm trusting him, I realize with discomfort. Actually trusting this dark wizard I met two days ago, who bound our lives together and now wants to drag me across the continent on a quest that might be suicide.
When did that happen?
"We should sleep," Rhys says eventually. "Tomorrow we start gathering supplies, and the day after, we leave the Border Forest."
"Leave?" My chest tightens. The forest has been sanctuary, relative safety. "Already?"
"The suppression ritual is getting harder each time. Whatever you touched didn't just curse you—it marked you. Other things will be drawn to that power." His expression darkens. "We need to move fast."
"How fast?"
"Fast enough that you might actually survive this."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. He doesn't say "we might survive this." He says "you."
Like he's already decided his life matters less than mine.
"Rhys—"
"Get some sleep, princess. Long day tomorrow."
He turns away, ending the conversation, but I see the tension in his shoulders. See the way he flexes those branded hands like they're hurting again.
I lie down on my bedroll, exhausted but unable to sleep. The curse pulses in my chest, and for the first time, I don't just feel its hunger—I feel its purpose.
It wants something. Needs something. And whatever it is, we're running toward it with every step toward that temple.
I close my eyes and try not to think about what happens if we don't make it in time.