Zara Everen | Age 18 | Moonkeep Estate, Beneath the Stone
They always called me curse-child.
Not in the poetic way. Not the whispered, haunted kind you find scribbled in old books next to names like Lilith or Fury. No. Just "curse."
Sometimes "it." Once, "thing."
I stopped keeping count of names after the tenth year. Somewhere around the same time I stopped keeping count of meals, too.
The chain around my ankle always knew the date better than I did. The cold metal never changed. Never loosened. Never rust. Not even when I bled on it. Which was often.
Magic, maybe.
Or maybe just good craftsmanship.
Moonkeep was generous like that.
The floor was wet again. Not from rain — the basement never touched anything pure like that. No, this was the kind of wet that dripped down from stone like the earth itself was sweating. Cold. Smelling faintly of mold and rust and... something sour.
I liked it better that way. If it ever smelled clean, I'd think I was dead.
I sat with my back against the wall. Same spot as always. Left corner, beneath the barred window too high to reach. I could see a slit of sky through it when the moon was full. Just a crack. Just enough to remind me the world was still spinning somewhere up there.
My chain stretched far enough to crawl to the bucket. Not far enough to die in peace.
Today's gift from the gods: a bowl of congealed porridge. The kind that stuck to the side of your teeth like old sorrow. It was already cold. Not that temperature mattered. I hadn't tasted heat in eighteen years.
Or light.
Or kindness.
Footsteps.
I tensed without thinking. Muscle memory. You hear enough footsteps, you start to catalog them like songs. This pair was slow. Heavy. Drunk or lazy. Or both.
Bren.
I curled my fingers into fists and tucked them beneath my knees.
The door creaked open like it had something to say. He stepped in, ducking his head because he always forgot how low the beams were.
"Little freak," he greeted, voice slurring at the edges.
"Big idiot," I muttered back, too quiet for him to hear.
He kicked the porridge bowl as he passed, splattering it across the floor. Typical. He liked to pretend I didn't need food. Liked it more when I looked like I was dying.
He crouched in front of me, the scent of stale ale and sweat curling into my nose.
"You still breathing?"
I didn't answer. That usually bought me a slap. Today I got a backhand instead. Progress.
The pain snapped across my cheekbone, but I didn't cry out. I hadn't in years. Crying made them try harder.
Bren leaned closer, eyes red-rimmed. "Heard a rumor. Said your birthday's tomorrow. That true?"
I stared at him.
He smiled, teeth yellow and crooked. "Eighteen years of rot. Can't believe you're still alive."
"Neither can I."
The second slap was harder. Left a ringing in my skull that hummed in time with my heartbeat.
After he left, I let my head fall back against the stone. It felt good. Solid. Cold.
I could still feel the burn of his ring against my cheek. He always wore it for that reason. A family crest from a family that hated me.
A curse, they called me.
Not because I was evil. But because I lived.
Because the Queen died the same night I was born. Because the war began after that. Because the world started bleeding, and they needed something to point their shaking fingers at.
And I was convenient.
Small. Quiet. Shackled.
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I dreamed again that night.
Same dream as always.
Fire. Screaming. A forest that wept blood instead of sap. And a girl — her face pale, her hair silver-white, standing barefoot in a circle of bones. She looked like me. But not. Eyes wrong. Smile wrong.
She reached for me.
I woke up with a start, heart hammering. Sweat clinging to my skin like a second layer.
The room felt tighter. The chain heavier.
I don't remember what my mother looked like.
Sometimes I pretend I do. Imagine her face as a mix of old paintings and whispers. Sometimes I picture her tall and strong, with sharp eyes and sharper teeth. Other times, soft and sad, like maybe she didn't want this for me.
I wonder which version is worse.
I once asked a guard — back when I still had curiosity instead of caution — if she loved me.
"Would a loving mother die without looking back or a strong father die of grief?" He laughed so hard he choked on it.
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On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, the rats didn't come.
That's how I knew something was wrong.
They always came. Always skittered in through the cracks in the stone wall, sniffing for crumbs. I never hurt them. Sometimes I talked to them. Sometimes they answered.
But tonight… nothing.
Just silence.
And the sky through the window?
Blood red.
Around midnight, my bones began to ache.
Not the way they usually did. Not bruises or hunger or cold. Something… deeper. Like the marrow itself was shifting. Like something inside me was stirring for the first time.
My breath hitched.
Then the mark on my shoulder began to burn.
The crescent moon — the one I was born with. I'd always thought it was just a scar. A weird deformity. I used to scratch at it until I bled.
Now it glowed.
Faint. Red. Like an ember waiting to ignite.
I stared at it.
"What the hell…"
The pain came fast after that. Ripping through my ribs, up my spine, into my skull. I screamed before I knew I was screaming. My vision swam. The air cracked.
And then—
The chain snapped. Not rusted. Not loosened.
Snapped. Just like that.
I stared at my wrists. At the broken shackle.
I was… free?
No.
No, not possible.
I scrambled to my feet — half expecting to collapse — but I stood. Wobbly. Barefoot. Bloodied. But standing.
My hands shook as I stepped forward.
One step.
Not far. The stairs were still barred. The door still bolted from the outside.
But I staggered around.
Because I could.
I collapsed near the wall, panting. Laughing.
Gods, I laughed.
I hadn't heard that sound in years. It felt wrong. Like it didn't belong in my throat.
But something was coming.
I could feel it.
Like a thread pulling tight.
Like eyes in the dark.
I looked at the window.
The blood moon stared back.
And I swear it blinked.
From the woods far beyond the estate, a howl rose. Low. Long. Not a wolf. Not man. Something else.
Something was looking for me.
I pressed my palm to the stone. I closed my eyes. Felt the burn of the mark still pulsing.
Something had changed.
I didn't know what.
But I wasn't alone anymore.
And the world?
It was about remembering my name.