"Why me?"
"Because the curse is bound to you. To your soul. Valerian cursed Elara to be his forever—and that curse has followed you through seven lifetimes. Only you can reject it. Only you can break the chain."
Rhys wiped his eyes. "How?"
"Go to Ashbourne. Face him. Remember everything—the good and the bad. See Valerian not as a ghost or a monster, but as the broken man he was." Ignatius's grip tightened. "And then choose freedom.
Choose yourself. Refuse to be owned."
"That's it? Just... refuse?"
"Magic is about will, Rhys. Belief. Valerian's curse works because on some level, across all your lives, a part of you has accepted it. Has believed you belong to him. You need to stop believing that."
"I don't believe it!"
"Don't you?" Ignatius's eyes were piercing. "You've never fought back. Not really. Every life, you've run or surrendered or died. You've never stood your ground and said 'No. You don't own me. You never did.'
Rhys was quiet.
Because it was true.
Even now, even after everything Pryce had done... a small part of Rhys felt something toward him. Not love. But maybe..
inevitability? Like fighting was pointless because Pryce would always win?
"There's one more thing," Ignatius said quietly. "Lord Cassian—Luna's brother—is also reborn in this life."
Rhys looked up sharply. "What?"
"His soul is bound to yours too, though less directly. In every life, he's tried to help you. To save you. And in every life, he's failed."
"Who is he? Where?"
"I don't know. But he'll find you." Ignatius smiled faintly. "He always does. Usually when you need him most."
"And Luna?"
"Her soul finally found rest after the fourth life. She'd suffered enough." Ignatius moved to a cabinet, pulled out a small cloth bag.
"Take this. Herbs blessed for protection.
Burn them in Ashbourne when Valerian's presence becomes too strong. It won't banish him—nothing can do that except you—but it will give you breathing room."
Rhys took the bag. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You're walking into the lion's den, Rhys. Ashbourne Palace is Valerian's domain. His power will be absolute there." Ignatius's expression was grave. "You may not survive this."
"If I don't go?"
"He'll kill anyone else you try to love. And eventually, he'll drive you to suicide like he did in four of your past lives. Or he'll arrange for you to be killed.
Either way, you'll die.
And you'll be reborn for an eighth life, and the cycle will continue."
"So I'm damned either way."
"No." Ignatius squeezed his shoulder.
"You're being given a chance. Seven is a powerful number in mysticism. The seventh life is the breaking point—the moment when curses can be shattered. You have an opportunity no other incarnation has had: full awareness. Knowledge. A chance to make a different choice."
Rhys looked down at the bag of herbs in his hands.
"What if I'm not strong enough?"
"Then you'll die," Ignatius said bluntly. "But at least you'll die fighting. Isn't that better than living as his prisoner forever?"
Rhys left the monastery as the sun set, turning the mountains blood-red.
He had a choice to make.
Run—try to live a life alone, never loving anyone, avoiding Pryce's wrath through isolation.
Or go to Ashbourne Palace. Face the ghost king. Confront three hundred years of obsession and murder.
Break the curse or die trying.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Against his better judgment, Rhys answered.
"Hello?"
"Have you decided?" Pryce's voice was silk and shadows.
"How did you—"
"I'm always with you, beloved. You know that." A pause. "Brother Ignatius told you everything, didn't he? About our past.
About Elara."
"About what you did to her, you mean."
"About what we were," Pryce corrected.
"Before the lies. Before the betrayal. I loved her, Rhys. I loved you. I still do."
"You don't know what love is."
"Perhaps." Pryce's voice dropped lower. "Or perhaps I know it too well. Come to Ashbourne. Let me show you. Let me prove that what I feel is real."
"By murdering anyone I care about?"
"By keeping you safe. By making sure no one takes you from me again." Pryce's voice turned cold. "Come willingly, Rhys. Or I'll start eliminating everyone you've ever spoken to. The barista who makes your coffee. Your therapist. That young monk at the monastery who was so kind to you."
Rhys's blood ran cold. "You wouldn't—"
"Test me."
Silence.
"The estate is for sale," Pryce continued, voice warming again. "One million dollars. You have a trust fund, don't you? Buy it. Come home to me. And I promise—no one else has to die."
"Unless I try to love them."
"Why would you need anyone else," Pryce whispered, "when you have me?"
The line went dead.
Rhys stood in the monastery parking lot, hands shaking, and made his decision.
He'd go to Ashbourne.
Not because Pryce demanded it.
But because Brother Ignatius was right—this ended one way or another. And Rhys was tired of running.
It was time to face the ghost who'd haunted him for seven lifetimes.
Even if it killed him.
To be continued...
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are you like it or not?