They left the plateau before dusk.
The sky darkened quickly, clouds thickening into a bruised purple as the sun slipped behind the mountains. Wind rolled through the valley below, carrying the scent of ash and something older—metallic, faintly bitter.
She felt it before she saw anything.
A subtle tightening in her chest.
Not pain. Not fear.
Awareness.
"Stop," she said suddenly.
He halted at once.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But the chain feels… alert."
The chains around his arms stirred, links shifting softly like something waking from sleep.
"That's not good," he muttered.
They scanned their surroundings. Broken pillars jutted from the ground ahead, remnants of a structure long reduced to ruin. Symbols were carved into the stone—ancient, weathered, yet unmistakably deliberate.
Her gaze snagged on one of them.
The moment she recognized the pattern, the chain pulled.
Hard.
She gasped as her wrist flared painfully, heat racing up her arm. At the same instant, he staggered backward, chains snapping taut with a violent clang.
"What did you see?" he demanded sharply.
"I—I don't know!" She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe through the pain. "Just markings. Old ones."
His expression darkened.
"Don't look at them," he said. "Not directly."
Too late.
The air shifted.
The ruins around them began to hum, low and resonant, as if responding to their presence. Dust lifted from the ground, swirling slowly despite the lack of wind.
The chain tightened again—different this time.
Not punishing.
Remembering.
Her vision blurred.
Suddenly, she wasn't standing in the ruins anymore.
She was somewhere else.
Stone walls rose around her, smooth and polished, lit by pale blue fire that burned without heat. Chains—hundreds of them—hung from the ceiling, each etched with glowing sigils.
And at the center of it all—
Him.
But not as he was now.
He stood taller, unbound, eyes glowing with cold authority. His expression was detached, almost bored, as figures knelt before him—mages, soldiers, priests.
They spoke, but she couldn't hear the words.
Only the sound of chains tightening.
The image shattered violently.
She screamed as she was thrown back into her body, collapsing to her knees as pain tore through her wrist and chest simultaneously.
He cried out as well, dropping heavily beside her, chains blazing with furious light.
"Damn it—!" he hissed, clutching his arm. "You saw it, didn't you?"
She could barely breathe.
"Yes," she rasped. "I—I saw you."
The humming stopped.
The ruins fell silent once more.
She looked up at him, heart hammering.
"That wasn't a memory," she said slowly. "It felt like… the curse showed it to me."
His jaw clenched so hard she thought it might crack.
"That place," she continued, voice shaking, "what was it?"
He didn't answer.
The chains around his arms writhed restlessly, reacting to his silence.
"Those people," she pressed, "they were kneeling. Why?"
"Enough," he snapped.
The word carried weight—commanding, sharp, edged with something dangerous.
She flinched instinctively.
The chain tightened in response.
He froze.
They stared at each other, the tension between them thick and volatile.
"I didn't mean—" he began, then stopped, exhaling slowly. "The curse doesn't like that tone."
"No," she said quietly. "It doesn't."
She pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly.
"You said it punishes attachment without balance," she continued. "But this—this wasn't attachment. This was history."
His gaze flickered away.
"The curse remembers," she said. "Even if you don't want it to."
The chains dimmed, settling into a low, uneasy glow.
They moved away from the ruins without another word, choosing a narrow trail that dipped into the forest below. The trees there were twisted, bark blackened as if scorched long ago. Leaves whispered softly despite the still air.
After a long silence, he spoke.
"That vision," he said. "You didn't see everything."
"I figured," she replied.
"What you saw was before the curse was finished," he continued. "Before it was… corrected."
Her stomach tightened. "Corrected how?"
He stopped walking.
"When people realized what I was capable of," he said quietly, "they decided control was safer than understanding."
She turned to face him.
"You were dangerous," she said carefully.
"Yes," he agreed. "And useful."
The words chilled her.
"They bound me to the curse to limit my reach," he continued. "But curses are not cages. They adapt."
"And now it's bound to me too," she said.
He met her gaze.
"Yes."
The forest seemed to close in around them.
"So what am I to it?" she asked. "A shackle? A weakness?"
"Neither," he said. "You're a variable."
That didn't comfort her at all.
They made camp beneath the shelter of a massive, hollowed tree. Fire was impossible—the curse reacted badly to open flame—so they settled for the faint glow of enchanted moss lining the roots.
She sat across from him, knees drawn to her chest.
"You never told me your name," she said suddenly.
His eyes flicked up.
"Names have power," he replied. "Especially with magic like this."
"I already share your pain," she said. "Your memories. How much worse could a name be?"
He studied her for a long moment.
Then, quietly, "You're persistent."
She shrugged weakly. "I survive by being annoying."
A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
"Not tonight," he said at last. "But soon."
That promise felt heavier than any refusal.
As the night deepened, exhaustion finally pulled at her limbs. She lay down carefully, mindful of the chain's pull, positioning herself so the tension eased instead of tightened.
Just before sleep claimed her, she felt it again.
That subtle awareness.
The chain pulsed softly.
Not in warning.
In anticipation.
Somewhere far beyond the forest, something ancient shifted—responding not to him…
…but to her.