CHAPTER 100: _"The Final Thread of Fate"_
The sky above Elira groaned with a bruised purple hue, thick clouds rolling like the mourning of gods. On the edge of the cliff overlooking the ruined city, Arien Thorne stood, the wind tossing his dark hair like a crown that refused to stay. Below him, Elira was no longer the kingdom he had once vowed to protect—it was ash and silence, a graveyard of forgotten dreams.
Lysia knelt beside the broken altar of the Old Moon Temple. Her fingers trembled as they traced the ancient runes embedded in the stone, her eyes glossed with salt and sorrow. The inscription shimmered beneath her touch—_"To love is to die. To die is to awaken."_ She whispered it aloud, the words falling like a spell she was never meant to utter.
"I don't know if this will work," she said, her voice fragile as paper in fire.
Arien stepped forward. "It has to."
Their hands met over the altar. The final ritual required blood, truth, and sacrifice—none of which they lacked. Arien drew a dagger from his belt, etched in celestial symbols. It had once belonged to his mother, a relic of peace in an age of war. He pressed the blade to his palm and let crimson drip into the hollowed stone.
"Your turn," he said.
Lysia hesitated. Her magic flared unbidden, the curse reacting to her heartbeat. She could feel it again—love. The very thing that killed.
"I'm afraid," she confessed. "What if I lose you?"
"You already did," Arien replied, "and I came back. I'll keep coming back, no matter how many lifetimes it takes."
She slit her palm. Their blood mingled, sizzling with forbidden magic. The runes flared, the ground trembling beneath their feet.
Suddenly, the temple split open. A vortex of memories spilled into the air—ghosts of kings, the screams of children, the laughter of a world before the curse. Lysia saw herself as a child, locked away by the Order. Arien saw his coronation, the weight of a throne carved from death.
And then, silence.
A voice echoed from the void. Not human. Not god. Something _older_.
> _"Why do you defy the fate carved into your souls?"_
Lysia stood, broken but unbowed. "Because fate never asked us what we wanted."
> _"You carry the curse of ten thousand hearts. You bleed what others cannot contain. You will never be free."_
Arien reached for Lysia's hand. "Then let us be bound. If we must carry it, we carry it together."
Lightning cracked the sky. The ground split. And from the altar rose a flame—the _Heartfire_—the original curse given shape. It hovered between them, pulsing with every pain, every love, every death they had endured.
They stepped into it together.
Pain roared through their bones. Magic peeled them open, revealing truths they didn't want to know—past lives where they killed each other, futures where they ruled, timelines where they never met. But through it all, one thread remained: their love. Damned. Endless. Real.
When the flame faded, they stood changed.
Arien no longer bore the mark of the cursed prince. Lysia's eyes no longer burned with destruction. The curse had not been broken. It had been rewritten.
They walked from the altar, hand in hand. The temple crumbled behind them, and the wind carried away the old gods' voices.
In the sky above, stars aligned in a new constellation—a phoenix wrapped around a crown. A new beginning.
"We're not safe," Arien said.
"No," Lysia replied, smiling. "But we're finally free."
And far below, in the ruins of Elira, a seed bloomed from scorched soil.
The curse had ended.
But the legend had just begun.