The forest swallowed them whole the moment they crossed the clearing's edge.
Ancient blackthorn trees rose like skeletal sentinels, their branches twisted into impossible shapes, thorns as long as daggers dripping with morning dew that caught the weak sunlight like blood. The air grew thicker here, heavy with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and something sweeter—almost cloying—like overripe fruit left to rot. Every step crunched on fallen twigs that sounded too loud in the oppressive silence. No birds sang. No small creatures scurried. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Alix Teardom walked a few paces behind Donstram Donovan, careful to keep distance. The soul bond thrummed between them like an invisible thread stretched too tight, humming with every heartbeat. She could feel him: the steady burn of anger in his chest, the dull ache of old wounds that had never properly healed, the constant wariness that made his shoulders tense. It was unnerving, this intimacy without consent. She had spent years perfecting walls around her emotions; now they were paper-thin, and he was on the other side whether either of them liked it.
Donstram moved with the quiet lethality of a predator who had long ago learned that silence was safer than noise. His cloak, still torn from the fight, billowed slightly as he scanned the path ahead. He hadn't spoken since they left the bodies behind. Alix wasn't sure if the silence was punishment or simply his nature.
She broke it first.
"We need to head northeast," she said, voice low. "There's an old coven sanctuary deeper in the grove. If any records of the curse remain, they'll be there. The ritual requires more than just your blood now. The bond has... complicated things."
Donstram didn't slow. "Complicated how?"
"The original rite was meant to be performed with willing sacrifice. A single drop of royal blood on the altar, spoken over with intent. Now..." She touched the faint crimson mark on her wrist, still warm. "Now the bond has fused us. Breaking the curse means breaking whatever ties us. If we fail, we might both unravel."
He stopped abruptly, turning to face her. Stormy gray eyes bored into hers. "You mean if you die, I die. And if I die, you die."
"Essentially."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "And you didn't think to mention this before I grabbed your bleeding wrist?"
"I didn't know it would trigger like that." She met his gaze without flinching. "The visions were vague. Fate likes its little surprises."
"Fate." He spat the word like it tasted bitter. "I've had enough of fate's games." He turned away, resuming his stride. "Lead, then. But if this sanctuary is a trap, witch, the bond won't save you from my blade."
Alix followed, swallowing the retort that rose in her throat. She understood anger. She had lived with it for years. But his was different—sharper, honed by betrayal rather than isolation. She wondered what it would feel like to carry that kind of rage every day, to wake up knowing the world had taken everything and still demanded more.
They walked for hours. The blackthorns grew denser, forcing them to duck under low branches and step carefully over roots that snaked across the path like veins. The light dimmed, filtered through the canopy into a perpetual twilight. Alix's wound ached with every step, but she refused to complain. Weakness was not an option.
Eventually the bond began to play tricks.
Alix felt a sudden wave of exhaustion that wasn't hers. Donstram's pace faltered slightly, and she realized he was tiring too. The fight had taken more from him than he let on. Without thinking, she reached out through the bond, pushing a thread of her own vitality toward him—just enough to steady his steps.
He stopped dead.
"What was that?" His voice was dangerously quiet.
"I... shared some strength." She lifted her chin. "You were slowing."
"Do not do that again." He rounded on her, closing the distance in two strides until they were nearly chest to chest. "I do not need your pity, and I will not be indebted to a witch."
"It wasn't pity." Her voice stayed calm, though her pulse raced. "It was practical. If you collapse, I suffer too. We're linked, whether you like it or not."
His eyes searched hers, stormy and unreadable. For a moment she thought he might strike her. Instead he exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back.
"Fine. Keep your magic to yourself."
He turned and continued walking, but slower now, as if the admission cost him something.
The grove deepened. The blackthorns began to whisper.
Not with voices, exactly—more like memories caught in the wind. Snatches of ancient chants, laughter that turned to screams, the wet sound of blades meeting flesh. Alix recognized fragments of Blackthorn rituals: binding spells, soul-weavings, curses laid down in blood. The grove remembered. And it was not kind.
Donstram noticed her tension. "What is it?"
"The trees... they hold echoes. Old magic lingers here."
He glanced at the twisted branches overhead. "Then we should hurry."
They pressed on until the path opened into a small clearing dominated by a stone circle. At its center stood a ruined altar, cracked and overgrown with thorny vines. Faded runes glowed faintly along the edges, pulsing in time with the soul bond's crimson thread.
Alix approached slowly, reverence warring with dread. "This is it. The heart of the old coven."
Donstram hung back, sword half-drawn. "It feels wrong."
"It is wrong." She knelt before the altar, tracing the runes with a finger. "This is where the curse began. My ancestors betrayed an alliance with your bloodline centuries ago. They thought they could harness royal power without consequence. Instead they were cursed to isolation, and your line was marked for destruction."
Donstram stepped closer despite himself. "My father told me the witches tried to steal the throne. That they poisoned the royal line."
Alix looked up at him. "History is written by the victors. The truth is rarely so clean."
She pressed her palm to the altar. The stone warmed beneath her touch. Visions flickered across her mind: a young witch and a prince standing where they stood now, hands joined, blood mingling on stone. A promise of unity. Then betrayal—daggers in the dark, screams, a curse woven in desperation and rage.
She pulled back, breathing hard. "The curse was never meant to last forever. It was a failsafe. If the bloodlines ever rejoined willingly, it could be undone. But the bond we have now... it's forcing the issue. Fate is impatient."
Donstram stared at the altar. "So we perform the ritual here?"
"Not yet." Alix rose. "We need three things still: the tear of a forsaken lover, the essence of a shattered prophecy, and a willing sacrifice. The blood we already have, but it's tied to the bond. We have to break the bond first, or the curse will consume us both."
He laughed, low and humorless. "A forsaken lover. That should be easy. I haven't loved anyone in years."
Alix felt a pang through the bond—his words were true, but the ache beneath them was not. She chose not to comment.
Instead she said, "We'll rest here tonight. The grove will protect us... somewhat. In the morning we head for the Ruined Citadel. There's an oracle there who might tell us where to find the other pieces."
Donstram nodded once, curt. He gathered fallen branches for a fire while Alix cleared space near the altar. They worked in silence, the bond humming between them like a taut string.
When the fire crackled to life, casting flickering shadows across the stones, Donstram sat across from her, elbows on knees, staring into the flames.
"Why you?" he asked suddenly.
Alix looked up. "What?"
"Why did fate choose you to carry this curse? Why not some other witch?"
She considered the question. "Because I was the last. The only one left alive when the inquisitors came for the coven. I was twelve. They killed everyone else. I ran. The curse followed me, made sure no one else could take it up. It wanted me to suffer alone."
Donstram was quiet for a long moment. Then, almost reluctantly: "My father was executed for treason when I was fifteen. They said he conspired with witches. I was exiled the same night. The crown passed to my cousin. I've spent ten years proving I'm not my father... and still they call me traitor."
The admission hung between them, heavy and unexpected.
Alix met his gaze across the fire. "We're both ghosts, then. Walking dead, waiting for the grave to catch up."
He snorted softly. "Romantic."
She almost smiled. Almost.
The fire popped, sending sparks skyward. Outside the circle, the blackthorns whispered louder, as if debating whether to let them live through the night.
Alix lay down on the cold stone, using her cloak as a blanket. Donstram stayed seated, sword across his lap, keeping watch.
Through the bond, she felt the first crack in his armor: a flicker of curiosity, quickly smothered. And beneath it, something softer—reluctant respect, perhaps.
She closed her eyes.
Unique insight settled over her like mist: Survival was never solitary. Even in isolation, fate wove connections, fragile and unwilling, because no soul was meant to carry its weight alone. The curse had tried to prove otherwise. It was losing.
In the darkness beyond the firelight, something watched them.
Not an animal. Not a memory.
A presence, ancient and patient.
Waiting.