Seven years passed quietly.
Too quietly.
The manor walls hadn't changed. Stone floors polished until they glared. Statues of old clan heads lined the halls with dead eyes. The servants still bowed with blank expressions. The same cooks, same voices, same rules.
But Eliar Veyne was no longer the weak, overlooked boy they believed him to be.
He had changed the moment he died.
And now, behind every smile and every "yes, Young Master," he watched. Listened. Waited.
He had one goal.
Find the source of the Curse Cycle—and destroy it.
It was raining.
He sat cross-legged on the edge of the eastern courtyard, pretending to study from a practice sword manual while his mind wandered. Thunder rolled in the distance, soft and tired. Behind him, two servant boys sparred with wooden blades, laughing,
"Eliar!"
His older cousin Callen stood behind him with a crooked grin. "Still pretending to train?"
Eliar didn't look up. "Still pretending to lead?"
Callen's smile twitched.
"You've got some bark now, runt." He stepped closer, footfalls light, sword slung over his shoulder like a toy.
"Careful who hears you. Might think you forgot your place."
Eliar finally raised his head. His eyes were calm.
"Didn't forget," he said. "I just decided I'm done with it."
Before Callen could respond, a gust of wind broke between them. Dust kicked up. A leaf slapped Callen's cheek.
Eliar rose to his feet.
"You're not worth it," he said. "Not yet."
Then he turned and walked back toward the manor.
He didn't see Callen's face flush red behind him.
He didn't care.
That night, Eliar lit a candle in his chamber. The flame danced low, flickering blue.
He pressed his palm against the wall beside his bed, fingers brushing along faint cracks in the stone. At this hour, no servants passed. His room was quiet, sealed, warded only by his own silence.
He whispered the phrase he'd waited to test for months.
"By thread and ash, I recall the path."
A sigil pulsed under his hand—faint, invisible to untrained eyes. It had taken him five years to trace the old Veyne glyphs from the study's forgotten scrolls, piece by piece.
The wall slid open.
A narrow tunnel descended into darkness.
He entered without hesitation.
The stairs were steep. The air grew colder the deeper he went. Cobwebs brushed his cheeks. He didn't bring a torch—shadows were safer.
After ten minutes, the tunnel widened into a low chamber, carved into natural rock. Stale air. Shelves lined the walls, holding broken relics—old blades, fractured stones, cracked pendants.
All cursed. All discarded.
Eliar's eyes locked on one: a small black ring with a hairline split through the center. Wrapped in cloth. Marked with a single rune:
The Curse of Silence.
It had belonged to a traitor priest who'd turned his tongue into a weapon. The curse had rendered him mute—but it could still be dangerous if absorbed.
Eliar unwrapped it slowly, holding the broken ring in his palm.
He focused his thoughts.
"Thread it."
The words activated his gift—the Cursekeeper's Core.
A dull pain bloomed in his chest. The mark across his heart glowed faintly: a scar he had carried since rebirth. It drank the cursed energy from the ring like water poured into fire.
The pain grew sharper.
Eliar winced, gritting his teeth.
The ring crumbled to dust.
He fell to one knee.
His ears rang. His throat ached, as if something were pulling apart his voice from the inside.
And then—
Silence.
True silence.
He couldn't hear his own breath. The drip of water. The wind above. It was like someone had pulled the world into a box and locked it shut.
[Curse Acquired: Seal of Silence – Effect: Prevents all external detection by sound-based magic or relics. Side Effect: Occasional muting.]
He coughed. The sound returned in a rush.
He smiled.
His first stolen curse.
Back in his room, he slid the wall shut.
His breath was steady now. His fingers trembled, just a little.
He stared at the candle. The flame was smaller than before.
"One curse down," he whispered.
"Thousands to go."
The next morning, the courtyard was full of murmurs.
Someone had tampered with the archives.
An inventory was missing. A single relic: the Silent Ring.
"Probably a rat," the steward muttered, annoyed but unconcerned.
Eliar walked past him without a glance, hands tucked behind his back.
No one noticed the faint black thread that wrapped around his wrist. It shimmered briefly—then vanished.
After lunch, he went to the western wing. The unused training hall. Empty at this hour.
He needed to test the second part of his gift.
He stood in the center of the stone floor, eyes closed.
Focused.
"Echo."
The word sparked something deep in his mind.
Suddenly, the air shimmered—and a ghost stepped forward.
Not a real ghost. Not a spirit.
It was him.
Or a version of him—one who had died in a different way. This Echo's chest was torn open, and his face was pale with blood loss.
But the Echo stood firm, sword in hand.
"Who are you?" Eliar asked.
"You," the Echo replied. "The you that bled out in the trial pits at age twelve. You hesitated."
"Not this time," Eliar said.
They fought.
The Echo moved with practiced skill, each swing clean. Eliar dodged the first strike, deflected the second, rolled aside and came up swinging. His blade passed through the Echo's ribs—but left a mark.
The Echo grinned. "Good."
Then vanished.
[Echo of Death: Bound.]
Eliar's heart pounded.
"I can summon echoes of myself," he whispered. "Versions that failed… but remember."
It was a terrifying power.
And it would only grow.
As dusk fell, he stood by the cliff behind the Veyne estate.
The rain had cleared. A mist hung over the valley. Below, the outer villages flickered with torchlight.
He watched them in silence.
The world still believed the cursed were monsters. That curses were things to lock away, to bury, to fear.
But he had seen something else.
Curses were threads—connections to old truths, forgotten gods, buried power.
If he could gather them…
If he could twist them…
He could rewrite the cycle.
"This time," he said aloud, "I won't let it end with fire."