The town of Mooncrest rose from the hills like a mirage—lanterns flickering in the dusk, casting long shadows on cobblestone streets. Its air was still, too still, and Caelen felt the tension before he crossed the threshold.
Lanternlight greeted them first. Then guarded stares.
The townspeople glanced their way with veiled suspicion, their smiles brittle. Caelen's curse stirred at once—a sour taste of mistrust, of buried fear and simmering greed. Still, exhaustion dragged at his limbs, and Elira looked no better. They needed rest.
A small inn with ivy-covered walls welcomed them. The innkeeper, a portly man with a practiced smile, bowed low. "Travelers, are you? A room, food, warmth—we offer it all."
His tone was polished, but Caelen's curse whispered otherwise. The man's heart rang hollow. Greed curdled beneath his words. Still, they had no choice.
They ate in silence. The fire crackled. The beds upstairs were soft. But the quiet felt strained, stretched taut like a bowstring ready to snap.
Night fell.
And with it came knives.
Cloaked figures crept through windows and doors, blades drawn, footsteps silent. But Caelen felt them before he saw them. Their hatred, their bloodlust—it roared in his skull like a siren.
"Traitors," Elira hissed, unsheathing her dagger. Her eyes blazed, her stance ready.
The room erupted into chaos.
Steel clashed. Elira danced through the fray, fire blooming at her fingertips. Caelen fought beside her, pain flooding him with every wound he absorbed, every blow that should have fallen on her. But they were outnumbered.
A dagger caught his side, hot pain slicing through flesh. He stumbled, breath hitching. Elira cried out his name, but before she could reach him, a shadow struck—fast, brutal. She fell beside him, her flame extinguished.
Caelen's vision blurred. Blood dripped from his fingers. He could no longer feel the difference between his pain and the attackers'—all of it bled together.
Boots approached.
The innkeeper stood above them now, face shadowed by torchlight. The warmth from earlier was gone, peeled away like a mask.
"Take them to the master," he sneered. "He's been waiting."
Caelen's last thought before darkness swallowed him was not of escape, or vengeance.
It was of Elira.
Of how even now, even here—
Kindness had been used as a weapon.
And trust had cut the deepest of all.