I collapsed to the floor like a dead tree toppling after a storm. My legs wouldn't hold me, and my tears fell so hard I felt the earth beneath me might soak up the flood and swallow me. I was shaking as if winter had frozen my bones, though the room was warm. There was nothing in my heart but a hollow—dark, heavy—like something inside me had snapped for good.
The servants hurried around me, faces tight, voices clipped, their hands reaching to steady me. One maid took my shoulder with real gentleness; another handed a handkerchief to wipe my face; a third whispered, "Calm down, miss… everything will be all right." But I knew the truth—my family wouldn't care in the end. The servants… they were the only ones who stayed.
I was breathing hard, my whole body trembling, when I saw a shadow move through the crowd. It was her—my cousin, Sena. Her steps were quiet, but there was something odd about them, like the floor dared not make a sound under her feet. She knelt beside me until her eyes met mine, then reached out slowly and touched my cold hand. Her voice was soft on the surface but sharp underneath: "Calm down… don't cry… you're strong."
When I lifted my head and looked straight into her eyes, I felt no comfort. Those weren't consoling eyes. They were full of a darkness I couldn't explain—hateful, spiteful—watching me as if it pleased her to see me break.
Weirdly, everyone around us was smiling as they watched her wipe my tears. Nobody saw what I saw. Nobody felt that the smile on her face was a mask, not warmth.
Then something in her hand caught my eye—a faded handkerchief. I swear I saw faint black ripples rising from it, like the air around it was warped. I looked up more, and then I noticed it: almost everyone around me—servants, guards, even some of my relatives—seemed ringed by a thin veil of black, fine as smoke, drifting and then fading.
Fear crawled through me cold as ice. I didn't understand what was happening. I looked at my hands and saw dark spots spreading across my skin, like poison seeping into my veins. My heart pounded, my fingers went numb.
I raised my eyes to Sena's again—and she was gone. Not gone like she'd left the room, but gone as a person. I saw something else: not human. Her body remained, but her face melted behind a dark mask. Her features blurred into shadow, two ember-like eyes burning where pupils should be, her mouth stretched into a terrible grin—like someone who'd found pleasure in watching prey breathe its last.
I was about to scream when I noticed her fingers pressing the handkerchief. A light pressure… and my heart flinched as if stung. Then a harder press—like a blade piercing my chest. My blood felt like it boiled in my veins and then shot from my mouth in a burst.
The maids gasped; one stumbled back, hands covering her mouth. I let out a sharp, torn scream I'd never heard from myself before. And then—everything stopped. The sounds died, the air went still, even the candle flames frozen in place. Time seemed to stop for a second, or for an age…
Dawn was threading gray into the window when a voice I'd once found safe cut the silence—my father's. It was hoarse and trembling; apology and plea tangled in his words.
I opened my eyes with effort, my lashes heavy as lead. I saw him standing by my bed, eyes rimmed red from sleeplessness, hands shaking as he wiped my brow. I didn't need him to ask if I was all right; the hurt in his voice and the lines of his face said it all.
I looked at him with a small, drowning hope—the kind a drowning person clings to when they glimpse dry land. After days—or weeks—of abyssal absence, he was here, touching me, calling my name.
I wanted to reach for his hand and say, "Don't worry… I'm here." But my tongue wouldn't move. I tried to form a single word—anything—but nothing came. My throat felt dry, as if a heavy wall stood between my heart and my lips.
"Don't move, little one… you're very weak." He said it in a sad, warm voice, and I closed my eyes again. My whole body ached from exhaustion; even the air felt heavy.
My father sat with me for hours, soothing me in halting phrases, promising I'd get better, that the pain would fade, that what happened wouldn't repeat… but his words were like autumn leaves—pretty to the eye, fragile to the touch.
Then memory came back, sudden as a door thrown open: images, sounds, the metallic scent of blood. Every scene was horrific—so horrific I wished I could never remember. Yet it all rushed back, whole, chasing me even in my silence.
Days crawled by. The doctor visited often, face serious as he checked me. One morning he told my father, "She had a severe condition… but she's out of danger now."
I nodded a little, but inside I didn't believe him. It wasn't just a stroke or an ordinary illness. I was certain of something else—something black and heavy was behind it.
I was sure I'd lost my voice. I'd become mute; silence pressed like a collar on my throat. At least my body was still, if weak.
Later, my father told me he'd sent condolences to my friend's family and explained we couldn't attend the funeral because of my illness. A knife twisted in my chest—my friend was more than a sister to me, and now I couldn't say goodbye.
One day I insisted on writing a letter by hand to her family. I wanted to tell them I loved her, that I mourned, that I was sorry I hadn't been there. I fetched a small notebook and an ink bottle. I set the pen between my fingers—then it slipped out at once.
I stared at my hand in disbelief. I tried again, focusing, holding the pen tight, but my fingers froze, as if my nerves refused to obey. The motion was simple, but my body rebelled.
Frustration welled up, but my curiosity was stronger. Why couldn't I write? Why couldn't I move?
I started reading in my father's old study—books on our family history, wars, neighboring realms. Then my eyes caught a word that made my spine shiver: "black magic."
I'd heard whispers before, warnings here and there, but I'd never known its truth. They said it was the worst of magic, forbidden and punishable by death. Still, a deadly curiosity gripped me.
I pulled out a thick, cracked black book and read about rites, curses, and how they could ravage body and mind.
My hands began to shake, my heart hammered. The more I read, the colder I felt, as if the chill of a tomb had wrapped around me. The book slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a hollow thud.
My teeth chattered and tears fell without my will. I knew then—this wasn't fiction.
I was cursed.
I didn't need much proof; my mind connected the dots. The symptoms, the forced silence, my useless hands—everything began after my aunt and her daughter had come close that ill-fated night.
Worse, the curse seemed designed to keep me mute and unable to write—so I couldn't expose what they'd done to me.
I didn't sleep that night. I sat by the window watching the sky, searching for something to guard me. Anger and fear battled inside me until a slow, sharp resolve formed: if this was indeed black magic, I'd find a way to break it, whatever it cost.
Days dragged like stones, every hour heavier than the last. Physical recovery was slow, but the psychological wound ran deeper. My body regained some strength, but my spirit remained battered—like someone who'd survived a long battle and wasn't sure if they were still alive or only a shadow of a person.
My father visited me often. Each time he entered, I saw that ceaseless worry in his eyes, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He apologized again and again until his words hurt more than any wound. I wanted to tell him, "Enough, father… I don't want to see you like this," but my tongue was heavy and my spirit tired.
I knew what had befallen our family wasn't only the result of cruel hearts or betrayal; it was the work of witchcraft and curses. And yet their hearts were still kind deep down, even if circumstances had warped the shape of that kindness.
When I felt well enough, I couldn't resist the pull— I wanted to see Ronn. I missed him so much my chest ached at the thought of his face, his voice, the way he called my name like I was the only person in the world.
That cold morning I put on my coat and went to his usual place. The streets were unusually quiet, fog curling through the narrow lanes as if hiding things from me. I reached the place—but he wasn't there. I waited an hour, then two, maybe more. I stood at the doorway watching faces, searching for his. He didn't come.
I tried again the next day. Same result. By the third day anxiety crept in, filling my chest until I felt I was suffocating. I asked the guards to search the area, to ask around. They moved on my request, but their answers were an eerie silence.
Day four—nothing. Day five—terror started to grow. I imagined every terrible possibility: had bandits attacked him? Was he hurt? Was he somewhere crying for help no one heard? I roamed the streets, scanning every corner, racing after any movement I thought might be him. I even found myself searching dark alleys that used to frighten me, just because there was a sliver of hope he might be there.
On the sixth day, finally, a passerby said with a small smile, "Ronn's back from his travels. I saw him a little while ago." Warm air seemed to slip into my chest, lifting a huge weight from my shoulders. I thanked him with every gesture I had and hurried off, almost running, eyes bright with hope.
Oh, how I wish I hadn't moved. How I wish that man had never told me. How I wish I'd stayed ignorant—because what waited for me was unbearable.
I was sure my heart danced as I approached, certain I'd hear his voice, maybe even scold him for disappearing. But everything vanished at once when I saw him.
He was lying on the ground. Eyes closed, face pale—no pulse, no breath, no life.
The world stopped. No sound, no color, no time. I dropped to my knees beside him and screamed, calling his name. I shook his shoulder, tried to wake him, tried to force his heart to beat again. Nothing.
My tears came and didn't stop. I wept with a fierce pain, as if my soul was burning inside. I pounded the ground with my fists, screamed until I thought my lungs would fail.
"Why?" I cried, holding his cold body. "Why did you leave me? Didn't you promise we'd stay together?"
Ron—my friend, my first love—was dead. He'd left me in a cruel world with no refuge. I held him as if my embrace could bring him back, as if my warmth could erase the chill of death. But the truth was brutal and immovable.
He was gone. And with him, a part of me had gone too.
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