ARIELLA'S POV
The abandoned farmhouse is exactly as advertised—abandoned and barely standing.
Half the roof has collapsed, the door hangs crooked on broken hinges, and something small and furry scurries away when we enter. But it's defensible and isolated, which apparently makes it perfect.
"Home sweet home," Rhys mutters, dropping his pack in the least-damaged corner.
I want to collapse. Want to close my eyes and pretend the village incident never happened. Instead, I watch Rhys methodically check the perimeter, set basic wards at the entrances, and start a small fire with practiced efficiency.
He's done this before, I realize. Many times. Living like this, running like this, always looking over his shoulder.
Three years, he said. Three years of exile.
And I've been free of Luminara for less than a week.
"Eat something," he says, tossing me a ration pack. "Then we train."
"Train? Now?"
"Especially now." His expression is serious, no trace of his usual sarcasm. "What happened in the village proves you need better control. The curse responds to emotion, which means you need to learn to weaponize it deliberately instead of letting it weaponize you accidentally."
He's right, but I hate it. "I'm exhausted."
"And tomorrow you'll be exhausted and hunted. Choose."
I choose training.
After eating, we clear space in the middle of the farmhouse. Rhys gathers objects—broken pieces of wood, stones, anything vaguely throwable.
"The curse," he begins, "responds to two things: emotion and will. Right now, it's running on pure emotion. Fear triggers it, anger fuels it, panic releases it. But you can do better."
"How?"
"By treating it like a weapon you control instead of a beast that controls you." He picks up a stone. "I'm going to throw this at you. Don't dodge. Use the curse to stop it."
"You want me to attack you?"
"I want you to defend yourself using the power you have instead of the power you wish you had." He weighs the stone. "Ready?"
I'm not ready. But I nod anyway.
He throws.
Instinct screams to dodge, but I force myself still. Reach for the curse the way he showed me, trying to direct instead of cage—
The stone hits my shoulder. Pain blooms.
"Again," Rhys says, already picking up another stone.
This time, I'm faster. Shadow manifests as a tendril, knocking the stone off-course. It's not elegant, barely controlled, but it works.
"Better. Again."
He throws stone after stone, forcing me to react faster each time. My shadows become more responsive, more precise. The curse still feels alien, but I'm starting to understand its language—hungry, eager, wanting to be used.
"Good," Rhys says after twenty repetitions. "Now we add complications."
He creates illusions with his magic—shapes lunging from darkness, sounds that make my heart race, threats that trigger my fear response.
Each time, I have to manifest the curse, control it, dismiss it cleanly.
It's brutal. Exhausting. And slowly, painfully effective.
By the time Rhys calls a halt, I'm drenched in sweat, arms trembling, but I can summon shadow tendrils on command and dismiss them almost cleanly. Progress.
"Not bad," he says, and coming from him, it feels like high praise.
We settle by the fire for the evening suppression ritual. My control has slipped badly after training—the curse is agitated, testing boundaries.
Rhys kneels close, drawing runes in the air between us. Our knees touch this time, the space between us narrower than before.
"This is getting harder," he admits quietly. "The curse is adapting to the suppression. Fighting it."
"How long do we have?"
"Days, maybe. Not weeks." He meets my eyes, and there's genuine concern there. "We need to reach the temple soon, Ariella."
The use of my name instead of "princess" sends an unexpected warmth through my chest.
His magic rises, and I channel the curse into his structured spell. The merging is rougher than usual, painful, but we hold it together through will alone.
When it's done, blood trickles from his nose.
"Rhys—"
"I'm fine," he says, wiping it away. "Just pushed a bit hard."
But he's not fine. I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hands shake slightly. He's burning himself out to keep me stable.
"You need to rest," I say.
"So do you."
"I mean really rest. Not watch me sleep. Not stay on guard all night. Actually rest."
He looks like he'll argue, then deflates slightly. "Maybe you're right."
We set a rotation—he'll sleep first while I keep watch, then we'll switch. It's the first time he's trusted me with our safety, and the weight of that trust sits heavier than I expected.
I watch him fall asleep across the fire, his face softening in a way it never does when he's awake. He looks younger like this, less guarded, and I understand suddenly why he lives alone in the Border Forest.
It's not just exile. It's protection. If he never lets anyone close, no one can hurt him again.
The thought makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the curse.
I turn away, focusing on the darkness beyond our small circle of light, and try very hard not to think about how much I'm starting to care what happens to the dark wizard who saved my life.