The ride was long, winding through dense forests, steep cliffs, and the ashes of long-forgotten battlefields. The further they traveled, the colder it grew—not from the weather, but from the weight of what lay ahead.
Elara sat behind Damon on the white warhorse, her arms wrapped around his waist. She could feel the tension in his back, the simmering storm he held within. Each mile brought them closer to the place where the curse was born—and perhaps where it could be broken.
Their escort—six of Damon's most loyal soldiers—rode silently, ever-watchful. Among them was Commander Halrik, a stoic man with a scar running down his cheek, said to have been earned defending Damon in a battle no one dared speak of.
"How much farther?" Elara finally asked, her voice muffled by the wind.
Damon answered without turning. "We reach it by nightfall."
She closed her eyes. The name alone had haunted her dreams: The Cradle of Blood.
---
Back in the jungle, Kieran stood before a crumbling altar, the jungle swallowing the ruins. The Whisperer slithered from the shadows, its formless shape hovering like smoke.
"They go to awaken it," Kieran said. "And I will be waiting."
"You are growing stronger. But she is still your weakness."
Kieran smirked. "She is my destiny. Just as much as she is his. But Damon doesn't understand the bond. I do."
The Whisperer hissed. "Then kill your brother. And take what is yours."
---
By dusk, Damon and his company arrived at the base of a mountain wrapped in thick fog. Nestled in a crevice carved by centuries of war was a fortress of black stone—its towers broken, its banners rotted to threads.
"Welcome," Damon said, dismounting, "to the Cradle of Blood."
Elara's breath caught. The walls seemed to bleed memory. The air pulsed with power. Ancient. Angry.
Inside, they lit torches. Dust danced in the light. Along the inner chambers were murals—scenes of battles between men and beasts, of lovers torn apart, of a woman with hair like hers bound in chains, and a man crowned in flames.
"That's you," she whispered. "And me."
Damon nodded grimly. "This place was once a sanctuary. Then it became a prison."
They entered the inner sanctum. A circular chamber with a cracked marble altar in the center. On the walls—names carved deep. Damon ran his fingers along them.
"My ancestors. Generals. Warriors. Each cursed. Each damned."
"But why?" she asked.
He looked at her. "Because they tried to bind power that was never meant to be chained."
Elara approached the altar. Her fingers brushed it—and a pulse shot through her body.
A vision.
A battlefield. Damon's ancestor—Darius Kessler—drinking from a glowing chalice. His lover screaming, trying to stop him. But it was too late. Power surged through him—and the curse was born.
Elara stumbled back, gasping.
"What did you see?" Damon asked, catching her.
"The beginning. The moment it all started. He drank it. The power. It wasn't a curse. It was a choice."
Damon's eyes darkened. "Then that means it can be undone."
---
Later, as the soldiers set up camp within the ancient fortress, Elara sat beside a dying fire, staring at the mural. Damon joined her, offering a flask.
"You're quiet," he said.
"Just thinking. About how close we've come. And how far we still are."
"You've done more than anyone ever has. You've made me believe. That alone is dangerous."
She smiled faintly. "Then let me be dangerous."
He looked at her. The firelight flickered in her eyes, and for a moment, the war, the curse, the blood—they vanished. Only she remained.
He leaned in and kissed her.
It was not soft. It was claiming. Fierce. Born of years of restraint unraveling.
She didn't pull away.
When they parted, she whispered, "I'm not afraid of the fire in you. I'm afraid of what it might cost to put it out."
Damon touched her cheek. "Then stay beside me. Even if we burn."
---
At midnight, a scream echoed through the halls.
Halrik.
They ran to the outer wall. One of the guards was missing. Blood trailed into the woods. Damon ordered a sweep.
That's when the first arrow flew.
An ambush.
Kieran.
From the trees, shadowy figures emerged—his army of turncoats and cursed warriors. Damon's men held their ground, but they were outnumbered.
In the chaos, Elara was grabbed. A hood over her head. A blade at her throat.
"Let her go!" Damon roared, fighting his way forward.
The attacker removed his mask.
Kieran.
"You want her? Then come take her."
He vanished into the trees with Elara, leaving Damon with fire in his eyes and blood on his hands.
---