Elara's body still shook when dawn pressed pale light through the shutters. Sleep had abandoned her entirely, leaving only the ache of the dream imprinted beneath her skin. Every detail lingered too vividly—the boy's silent scream, the queen's broken body, the stone's hateful glow. She rubbed her arms as if she could scrub the nightmare away, but the stains were not hers alone.
Rowan had lived it.
The thought clawed at her chest until she couldn't stand being alone in the chamber. She pulled a cloak around her shoulders and slipped out into the corridor, her bare feet silent on the cold stone. The air smelled faintly of ash, though the fires in the braziers burned clean. It was the curse, she thought bitterly. It lingered even in silence, as if the halls themselves remembered the massacre.
She found Rowan where she always half-expected him to be—outside, beneath the skeletal trees that bordered the fortress. His back was to her, his shoulders broad and rigid, the morning light etching sharp lines into his figure. He didn't move when she approached.
"You saw it too," she whispered, almost afraid to disturb the fragile quiet.
Rowan's head tilted slightly, but he did not turn. His voice was hoarse when it came, as if dragged over stones. "The nightmare never stays buried. Not for long."
Her throat tightened. "It was more than a nightmare."
Finally, he turned. His eyes were darker than she had ever seen them, rimmed with exhaustion and the ghost of fury. "It was memory."
Elara's breath caught. She had known, deep down, but hearing him say it aloud made her chest ache. "Your family… the guard…"
Rowan's jaw flexed. "My father trusted him. He trusted all of them. The guard was like a brother, raised alongside my bloodline, sworn to protect the stone. Instead, he carved his name in the throne with their deaths."
His gaze shifted past her, toward some distant horizon she couldn't see. "I was too young to stop it. Too weak to even scream. I hid while my family bled. Every howl, every plea—I heard them all. And when it was done, when the stone was stolen, the curse took root."
Elara reached for him before she realized it. Her hand brushed his sleeve, tentative. "Rowan… it wasn't your fault."
He laughed, bitter and hollow. "It doesn't matter. Blood doesn't care for blame. It only binds. And mine carries every drop they spilled."
His words settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Elara searched his face, the harsh lines carved by years of carrying what no one should bear. For the first time, she didn't see the unshakable Rowan who had stood against storms and enemies alike. She saw the boy in her dream—helpless, drowning in silence while the world collapsed around him.
And gods, it broke her.
"Then let me carry it too," she said, her voice trembling but steady enough. "You don't have to bear this curse alone."
Rowan's eyes flickered, something sharp and raw beneath the surface. For a moment, he almost looked undone. But then the walls rose again, as unyielding as ever.
"You think you understand," he murmured, stepping closer until his presence pressed into her space, heavy with heat and danger. "But you don't. The stone, the curse, the betrayal—it isn't just history. It lives. It waits. And when it stirs, it will demand blood again."
Elara's breath quickened. "Then let it take mine before it takes yours."
The silence between them cracked like glass. Rowan's eyes searched hers, lingering too long, as if warring with himself. His hand lifted, almost touching her cheek, before he curled his fingers into a fist and pulled back.
"You're a fool," he rasped, though the words lacked venom. "But gods help me, maybe a necessary one."
Behind them, a voice interrupted—the gruff tone of Corin, one of Rowan's most trusted allies, breaking the fragile tension. "Rowan. Scouts have returned. The guard's bloodline moves in the east. They seek Leova."
Elara's stomach dropped. The betrayer's descendants—still chasing the stolen stone, still clawing at power that was never theirs.
Rowan turned sharply, his shoulders tensing like a drawn bow. "Then the past isn't finished with us." His gaze cut back to Elara, softer now, almost reluctant. "Stay close. What's coming won't spare you."
Elara swallowed hard, her pulse thundering. She could still feel the nightmare's grip on her bones, the echo of blood and screams. But as Rowan strode ahead, commanding shadows like they belonged to him, she knew one truth with clarity.
The past was no longer just Rowan's burden. It was hers too.
And the stone—the cursed, sacred Leova—was waiting.