The wind howled like a dying beast, cold and sharp as broken glass. Kaelan's cloak snapped behind him, soaked in rain and darkened by the blood of the fallen. He hadn't looked back since fleeing the burning palace. His breath came in ragged bursts, not from exhaustion alone, but from the weight of grief and betrayal that clung to him like a shroud.
With each step away from the throne room—now a tomb—Kaelan felt the ties to his old life severing one by one. His father's final words echoed in his mind: "The curse is returning. Only you can stop it." But how was he, a shattered prince, to stop a force older than the kingdom itself?
Before him loomed the Forest of Nyr—vast, ancient, whispered to be cursed. It devoured wanderers and spit out nothing but bones. But Kaelan had no choice. He had no army, no allies, and no answers. All he had was the dying gasp of a king and the fire of vengeance simmering in his blood.
The first nights were the cruelest.
He slept little, curled beneath the gnarled roots of trees that groaned in the wind. Hunger gnawed at his belly. Fear kept his blade close. There were eyes in the darkness—too many, too quiet.
He fashioned crude traps, drank from muddy streams, and wore his pain like armor. No more silks, no more feasts, no guards to shield him. Only survival. And the slow, pulsing sting that bloomed on his left forearm: a blackened mark, shaped like a broken ring entwined with thorns. It had appeared after a dream—a nightmare, more accurately—of fire, shadows, and a voice calling him by name from beyond a mirror.
Kaelan had seen enough bloodshed to know one thing: this curse was real. And it had begun to awaken inside him.
On the sixth day of exile, he stumbled upon a clearing near a river, where an old man stood watching the current with hands clasped behind his back. The man wore a cloak patched with symbols Kaelan didn't recognize, and a crooked staff that pulsed with faint blue light.
"You're running from the shadow of your crown," the man said without turning. "But it follows. It always follows."
Kaelan drew his dagger and stepped forward. "Who are you? How do you know me?"
The old man chuckled. "I don't know you, Prince. I know your blood. It stinks of broken oaths and forgotten gods."
A chill ran through Kaelan's spine.
"I am Elandor," the man finally said, turning. His eyes were sharp, clear, and ancient. "Once mage of the royal court. Now… exiled, as you are."
Kaelan narrowed his eyes. "You were banished by my father. For treason."
"For truth," Elandor corrected. "I warned him the curse would return. He refused to listen. Now you bear its mark."
Kaelan's grip tightened on his blade. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because if you don't, the curse will eat you alive from the inside out. As it did your ancestors. As it will your children, should you live long enough to have them."
That last sentence stung. "Tell me what you know."
Elandor stooped and drew a symbol in the mud—a serpent biting its own tail, wrapped around a shattered crown.
"The Pact of Thorns," he said. "Forged by the First King in blood and secrecy. In exchange for power to unite the lands, he swore loyalty to something that should never have been awakened. That oath was never broken. The blood toll is still being paid."
"And the curse?"
"The curse is the toll. Every king since has tried to cheat it—through sacrifice, murder, even sorcery. But it always finds the true heir. Always."
Kaelan stared down at the mark on his arm. It burned softly now, like coal under skin.
"Where do I go?"
"Beyond the Forest of Nyr," Elandor replied. "To the ruins of Vel'Kareth, where the oath was first spoken. There you will find the truth of your blood."
"And the curse?"
"If you're strong enough," Elandor said grimly, "you may even find a way to break it. But beware, Prince. Some truths do not wish to be uncovered. And some oaths… are eternal."
Elandor handed Kaelan a small blue crystal, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"It will guide you when the forest tries to turn you around. But it demands willpower. Do not falter."
The days blurred into one another—endless trees, twisted paths, rotting corpses of deer and men alike. Once, Kaelan came upon the remains of a soldier nailed to a tree, a warning etched into the bark: The forest remembers.
At night, the crystal would glow faintly and pulse faster when he strayed. The curse in his arm burned more fiercely now. Sometimes, he swore he heard whispers in the wind. His father's voice. His mother's scream. A baby crying.
Sleep became a battlefield of its own.
In one dream, he stood in a chamber of stone and fire. A throne of bones rose before him, and seated upon it… his father. But twisted. Hollow-eyed. Skin pale and bloodless.
"Kaelan," the shade croaked. "You run, but you cannot escape. Your blood is your chain."
Kaelan fell to his knees. "No. I will break the curse. I will change everything."
"Change?" the ghost laughed. "You are already becoming me."
He awoke screaming.
One dusk, as Kaelan rested near a rocky outcrop, a shadow approached—silent, fast.
He rolled to his feet and drew his blade, but it was too late. The stranger already had a sword at his throat.
"Well, well," said a rough voice. "I thought you were a corpse. Shame."
A woman stood over him—leather armor scorched and patched, a jagged scar across her cheek. Her eyes were feral, but alert.
"Who are you?" Kaelan demanded.
She didn't lower the sword.
"Maela," she said. "Leader of the Ashen Blades. Rebel. Hunter of ghosts and kings."
Her blade pressed harder.
"And you… are Kaelan. The last of the cursed blood."
He didn't deny it.
"I'm not your enemy."
"Every man with that ring on his finger," she growled, "has cost this land its soul."
Kaelan raised his hands slowly. "I didn't choose this. I'm trying to end it."
"Trying?" she spat. "So were your ancestors, before they bled this kingdom dry."
A tense silence passed between them. Then, something in Maela's eyes shifted. A flicker of something deeper.
"You want to end it? Then you'll need more than a dagger and a sob story."
She stepped back and lowered her blade.
"I'll help you get to Vel'Kareth. Not for you—but for her."
She placed a hand on her belly. Only then did Kaelan notice—the faint curve, the careful steps. She was pregnant.
"I lost everything to this cursed throne. My family. My village. My peace. But this child… won't grow up in a land ruled by shadows."
Kaelan nodded slowly.
"I swear on my blood," he said, "I'll end the curse. Even if it costs me my life."
She smirked. "Good. Because it probably will."
They traveled together in silence at first. Maela was watchful, wary. She slept with her sword beside her and flinched at every sound in the dark.
But gradually, a mutual respect formed. Kaelan admired her courage. Her bitterness was earned. And Maela began to see that Kaelan was no spoiled noble playing hero—he was broken, haunted, determined.
She told him of Lord Varyn, the noble-turned-warlord who now claimed the capital. His army grew daily, feeding on the chaos.
"He wants to wipe the bloodline clean," she said. "Even if it means drowning the kingdom in war."
"He'll have to kill me first," Kaelan replied grimly.
She gave a thin smile. "He plans to."
That night, the fire crackled low as stars pierced the canopy above. Kaelan held the crystal in his hands, watching it glow in time with the cursed mark on his arm.
"Do you ever wonder," he asked Maela, "if all this was decided before we were born?"
Maela poked at the fire. "Of course. That's how they win. Make us believe we're trapped in a story we can't rewrite."
"But maybe we can," Kaelan whispered.
"Maybe," she said. "But first, you need to survive."
He nodded.
As the flames died down and sleep threatened them both, Kaelan felt something stir in the forest. A presence. Watching. Waiting.
And far away, beyond the trees, something ancient smiled.
End of Chapter 2
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