Page 7 of A Cursed Bite (Bound to the Enduar #1)

ARLET

The morning after…

D arkness clings to me like cobwebs, despite the spell lights bobbing overhead.

I blink. Why are there lights on? There are gaps in my memory. Blotted out with a blackness that swallows small moments whole. I remember going to my bed last night, lying down—then nothing.

A little while ago, I awoke on the floor of the greeting room. Laid out like discarded fabric. A chill took hold of me then, and I haven’t entirely thawed. Not as I went upstairs, drew a blanket around me, and sat in front of my vanity.

Drinking too much mead at my ascension had been a mistake. I hardly ever do it, and now I’m paying the price.

That has to be it.

And yet… after the party, after the drinking, there had been more.

It started with Arion’s missive. The threat between the enduares and the elves is in the waiting for one side to make the first move. That waiting would be over if I’d allowed myself to be shipped to his doorstep. Hinging the salvation of Enduvida on my marriage to him—on me giving him a child—is a cruel cosmic joke.

Lying doesn’t come easily to me. I told one lie and withheld one truth the king had no right to. Now, he wants my body to bear his heir.

And then Daniel arrived. Daniel, who promised to love me, then broke my trust in every way possible. He showed up at my house to… what? What had he wanted?

To see me? To remind me of what happened?

In the darkness of my room, sadness coils tight in my chest, familiar and sharp-edged. I remember the other time I’d been so mad with grief that I couldn’t think straight.

Unshed tears burn my eyes and a memory comes to life.

I press my hand to my stomach, but there’s nothing left to hold. The silence in the room is unbearable, almost as much as the braided fabric strewn across the bed had been. The torchlight flickers against the moldering wooden walls, casting restless shadows that stretch and fade.

Daniel kneels beside me, his hand covering mine, but it doesn’t stop the emptiness. His fingers tremble, his breath uneven.

“What did you do to my son?”

Daughter , I think. It was a daughter.

I can hear the break in his voice, the helplessness he tries to swallow.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stay in this moment just a little longer—before I have to accept the truth. As long as I don’t move, as long as I don’t speak it into existence, maybe it won’t be real.

But then Daniel moves away, uncovering the stretch of my skirt covered in blood.

The grief settles into me like a stone sinking to the bottom of the ocean, heavy and inescapable.

I choke out a sob. There are no words, no undoing what’s already been taken. There is only the unbearable stillness in my midsection where life was supposed to be.

“Daniel, it happened so fast. I told you not to go, that I wasn’t ? —”

He looks up at me, green eyes vibrant next to the redness of his skin. “Out.”

“You can’t be serious,” I plead. The word is so final.

“The purpose for our joining is now gone. So, get out.”

He says it coldly, as if it had been my fault. As if I had been the one to bind me to the bed so I couldn’t move while he went out drinking.

I blink, ripping myself away from the memory before I drown in it. Estela had found me near the doused bonfire in the center of the slave pens that night, freezing. She took me in. Cleaned me up. There were entire stretches of time after I moved into her dwelling—hours, days, weeks—that were obliterated.

King Arion’s request has triggered something inside me. That’s why I drank so much. That’s why things are strange.

Just like before, it will pass.

I turn to the mirror, studying the crescent shadows beneath my eyes. Strange. They aren’t purple or blue, like usual, but a dull, lifeless gray. My skin is strange—too pale, too cold.

My blanket parts, and something dark catches my eye in the polished metal.

I stand. I look down. And I scream.

There is a stain my nightgown. When I move my hands, I notice it’s crusted along my fingernails.

Blood? Maybe this is a bleeding cycle?

I’ve never had a stain on the front of my body. But I’d woken up on the floor, maybe…

Gods.

Taking deep breaths, I move my hands to my face. The flakes are more purplish than crimson. If it’s blood, it’s not human, my mind supplies, even as my stomach twists. It’s such a deep purple, it’s almost black. My fingers scrape against it gingerly.

No pain. It’s not mine.

Hyperventilating, I tear the gown off my body, holding it away from me like it’s diseased. Cold air brushes over my bare skin. Frantic, I shove the gown deep into the bin of clothes to be washed, my hands shaking so violently I can barely feel them.

I stand there for a moment, breathing. When I turn back to the mirror to inspect my naked body, I tremble. Aside from my hands, there is no staining on my belly or legs.

My brain scrambles for solutions. A dark substance, potentially blood, coating my nightgown just like? —

But it wasn’t. It isn’t the same as the miscarriage. You should go to Ulla.

I take a deep breath. She would be able to check out everything. I calm a fraction, just enough for different thoughts to breakthrough.

Why is this happening when the first draft of Lorepath needs to be presented in only three months? We have to prepare for a proper start to school. I’d told Fira I’d help her with fabric for furniture in some of the houses in the new mountain settlement.

And there was a whole fucking mating journey. I’d been helping to alter clothes for some of the humans.

Gods .

Instead of dressing to go to Ulla’s, I hesitate. Maybe what was on my fingernails wasn’t blood? Maybe it was rancid mead? Or perhaps this was paint?

Sure, it smelled worse than any paint I’d ever touched, but I’d gone to bed knowing today will be full of work. Estela had mentioned wanting to meet this afternoon.

Work first. I’ll deal with this after. It was just a strange night. Nothing more.

I force myself into the washroom, scrubbing my skin raw with a damp cloth. I make a list of things that must be done. Going to the schoolhouse is out of the question. I shouldn’t be near the children when I’m so anxious, so I will wait until after sessions are over to check on my plans.

I know they need help with the looms. That’s reason enough to go about my day.

I take a deep breath and grab one of the cosmetics from my table. A balm-like cake, crushed with flesh-toned minerals. I press it into my skin, dulling the unnatural shadows in the hollows of my face and covering the ghastly freckles that look so much more prominent today.

The illusion of normalcy.

I give myself a weak smile in the mirror, stand, and head downstairs to grab a small breakfast. When I approach the kitchen, I see the bread that Ulla had baked me as a gift set on the table. When I grab a slice, it is hard .

Hmm .

Strange it should be so stale after only one night. The rest of the downstairs is littered with gifts from my ceremony, and I walk past them all as I pour some oil on the bread to soften it and chew.

I scan the floor, my heart pounding just in case I’ll find something suspicious on the ground. There’s no blood.

Satisfied, I slip on my shoes, and head to the front door just as the clock tower chimes eight.

Hostia . I’m going to be late again.

I head outside, still forcing the smile when my foot catches something solid. Something furry that catches on my shoe.

I freeze, a sick feeling clawing up my throat. Slowly, I look down.

A long, severed leg rests on my stone doorstep in a pool of thick blood, the same color as what had been on my nails and nightgown.

I choke on a gasp.

It’s a cave spider—an aradhlum, as the enduares call them. But the rest of it is missing.

I stare at the sharp claw at the end of its glossy joint. A chill seeps into my bones.

My ankle burns.

I lift my skirt, worried that perhaps one of its offspring has emerged to bite me, but instead I reveal a strange marking of a snake curling around my ankle.

It’s a tattoo, like the ones giant men would receive after battle. Enduares do not ink their skin like the giants did. Did one of the humans do this? Had I asked them to after my ascension? Maybe that’s why I fell asleep on the floor.

My head pounds as I scan my thoughts, trying to fit the pieces together. Then I find a second leg further down the path.

My stomach lurches. A lightning-bright shock races down my spine.

“What the hell are you doing?” a voice says behind me.

I freeze. My breath leaves me in a rush, my lungs ice-cold. My fingers tingle, blood draining from them as if my body already knows to prepare for flight.

I turn—slowly—to face him.

Lord Vann. Fuck, I’d forgotten he is my neighbor now.

His eyes drop back to the leg.

The old me rears her head, the one who shrinks back. The one who had learned long ago how to sidestep conflict, how to soothe men’s tempers before they ever had a chance to ignite.

I let my lips curve, let my voice lilt with something easy and bright.

“I—I found it on my step. Some creature must have killed it and brought it to me as a gift. I do tend to be perceived as a friendly thing.”

Vann’s eyes flick to the severed leg, then back to me. He all but rolls his eyes.

“Cave rats don’t make friends,” he says flatly. “Unless you’ve managed to gain the loyalty of a particularly bad hunter, I think there’s a simpler explanation.”

A jolt of panic laces through me, sharp as a dagger.

What does he know?

“And what would that be?” I ask.

He steps closer.

“You seemed half mad last night.”

I choke. “Are you saying I did this?”

He purses his lips. “No. Maybe this attacked you? Or was someone else here?”

His voice is quieter now, more measured. Not an accusation—he’s probing.

I let out a long breath. I don’t want to think about this. “Say your piece and let me get to work.”

For a long moment, he is silent.

Then, “I saw you yesterday,” he repeats. “You were screaming. Thrashing when I tried to pick you up.”

… What? Yesterday was the ascension.

My chest tightens, and my tongue acts quicker than my thoughts. “Perhaps it wounds your pride, but it shouldn’t be such a surprise that if you treat someone poorly long enough, they won’t want you anywhere near them.”

Vann tilts his head slightly, studying me with that unreadable expression of his. A slight frown pulls at the corners of his mouth, but sweat pools in my palms.

I can’t remember seeing him. I don’t recall him waking me up.

In fact, he is speaking as if a whole day has passed since my coronation. But that was last night?

“I have not always treated you poorly,” he says.

I blink, my worry shifting to the side as he draws near. Memories unspool, vivid as fresh ink on parchment as they pull them from the moment.

I remember his hands on my waist as he lifted me to place the bow atop the winter festival tree. Then the way we danced later.

Then there had been the night Joso humiliated me at the feast—how Vann’s fist had collided with his jaw before I could even react.

A year ago, a group of vaimpír had found a way into one of the tunnels. An enduar had fallen. Vann had nearly died, too.

I remember helping him afterward. After Ulla and Estela had patched him up, they left me to care for him. He was fevered when I pressed a damp cloth to his brow, his skin hot beneath my touch.

Then his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He brought my hand to his mouth.

I remember the press of his lips against my pulse. Then he graced me with a slow, lingering swipe of his tongue before his fangs sank deep.

My breath pushes out of my lungs, sharp and uneven. My heart gallops, thundering in my ears. Warmth rushes to my cheeks, the first I’ve felt all day.

What the fuck is this?

I exhale, too fast, too shallow.

Vann’s gaze lowers, his expression becoming something dark. He studies me, not just my words or my posture—but me. And for the first time in a long while, I can’t guess what he’s thinking.

I hate this feeling.

It creeps up only occasionally around him—this thing that coils beneath my skin, unsettling and unwelcome. I want to banish it, to shove it away just as I did the bloodied nightgown hidden in my room .

I should take that thing out and burn it.

"You know what I mean," I say, but the words are weak. Vann steps back, breaking whatever strange pull had settled between us.

He shakes his head, brushing past my deflection with infuriating ease. His voice is all business when he speaks again. “There is no spider blood inside the house?”

My breath catches. The stain on my nightgown flashes in my mind, stark against pale fabric.

I bite my lip. “No.” Another lie. The answer comes too quickly, too sharp to be wise. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to clean this.”

Vann shakes his head. “No, allow me. You should really go to see Ulla. She helped you last night, and if you don’t remember, it would be good to check in.”

I swallow. “Right.”

Vann’s hand twitches as I step past him, but he doesn’t stop me.

I grit my teeth and keep walking. Even with my home positioned well within the council housing, reaching the looms takes nearly half an hour. The steady bustle of morning activity filters through the streets. I smile and wave at everyone who greets me.

When I pass Hammerhead Hall, the scent of roasted grains and crisped meat fills the air. My stomach twists painfully, still hungry, but I don’t stop.

I think of Ulla. What would I even say to her?

Would she see through me, hear the shake in my voice, the gaps in my memory? Would she ask how I was feeling?

Guilt prickles over my skin when I think of the spider. Clearly, I had something to do with it as evidenced by the blood on my fingernails and nightgown. But I can’t remember anything last night.

Had my subconscious protected me? Had someone who brought me back from getting a tattoo killed it?

I duck my head and press forward. When I reach the looms, I’ll lose myself in work. Everything will be fine.

It has to be fine.

The gilded arches of the weaving cavern rise ahead. The tension in my shoulders eases just a fraction. It’s safe here. Most people don’t visit—I’ll be able to hide for a while .

Some might say that being put on the council should preclude me from also serving as a weaver and actively assisting with classes.

But some people should be thankful for the blankets on their bed.

I cross under the arches and survey the massive area filled with over a hundred standing looms. The air hums with the rhythmic clack of carved shuttles against stone.

At the back of the chamber, Lady Fira stands with a group of stone-bending weavers, their hands working in tandem over a massive block of silkstone. Unlike regular weaving, their craft is a seamless dance between artistry and magic.

Stone benders, enduares gifted with the ability to manipulate rock, have long shaped the foundations of Enduvida. Some, like the builders, mold the city’s structures with practiced precision. Others, like Fira, unravel stone itself, spinning delicate threads that no ordinary hands could weave.

I watch as she pulls at the edge of the silkstone, her deft fingers coaxing impossibly thin threads free before winding them onto her spindle. An old pang stirs in my chest. For all my skill with a loom and teaching children, I’ve always wished I had magic—something to let me weave as seamlessly as she does. But very few humans are born with magic, and those who are aren’t exactly revered for it.

The brujas , as we call them in our tongue—witches in the common speech—are rarely trusted.

I glance around the chamber. Only two other weavers have arrived before me—one human, one enduar. The enduar, an ocean-risen named La’Mihni, is already at her station, her skilled hands moving over fabric more suited for a gown than a simple woven rug.

Her long, glossy gray hair is piled high above her head in intricate coils. Gems glitter across her workstation, catching the glow of the spell-lights above. Draped over her thigh is a swath of deep red fabric, rich as blood. I know exactly what she’s working on. Her mating journey gown.

A frown tugs at my lips. It seems a waste when there’s so much else to do.

“Lady Arlet!" Lady Fira’s voice rings across the chamber. I turn, forcing a small smile at the sight of the elderly woman. She’s also on the council and is one of the most respected weavers in Enduvida. She has always been kind to me.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, her sharp eyes scanning me.

I smile. “I’m here to help.”

Fira lets out a long sigh, setting her spindle down with a firm click. “You already have too many duties, child. You can’t keep stretching yourself thin. The city needs you elsewhere.”

I lift my chin. “I just wanted to help for the day, as I promised. I haven’t been here in almost a month.”

Her lips purse.

“Please,” I say with a smile.

“Fine,” she mutters, waving me over. “But at least take that loom. Kiera won’t be here today and you can sit near us while we gossip.”

I chuckle, moving past the rows of empty machines to the storage cupboards where I used to keep my thread. The routine of it all soothes more of the upset inside of me. Clears away a bit of the darkness, too.

My fingers skim over the bundles of tightly wound fibers, searching for the batch I set aside for treadcloths.

When I reach the station, I settle onto the bench, my fingers brushing over the loom’s sturdy stone frame. The structure is broad and well-worn, its polished columns smoothed by generations of hands before mine.

At my feet, the treadles—a set of wide, flat pedals—wait beneath the frame, their placement instinctive after years of practice. With a shift of my weight, I press one down experimentally, feeling the loom’s internal mechanisms respond as the shafts rise and fall, lifting the carefully arranged warp threads.

To my right, the beater hangs heavy from its rail, its motion designed to press each new weft thread snugly into place. Above it, the castle—the central support that houses the pulleys and heddles—stands tall, holding the delicate sequence of threads that will soon take shape beneath my hands.

Every weaver knows that, in theory, all workstations are the same—but some feel different. Some pull smoother, respond better. The best ones aren’t just tools; they hum beneath your fingers, ready to sing.

This one is good.

A handful of enduares at the back turn toward me, along with the only human man among them—Ariano, an older weaver with a keen eye for fine thread. He gives me a smile.

“Lady Arlet, welcome.”

I return his greeting and ask, “What are the whispers in the quiet corners now?”

Before Enduvida grew so crowded with newcomers, gossip was scarce—someone finding a mate, someone falling ill, small tidbits of daily life.

Now?

There’s too much to talk about. Wars. Festivals. Clashes between our people. Skirmishes. Matehoods. Children. It’s usually enjoyable.

Sometimes .

Fira grins. “I went to the new section of the residential area last night. Just to see what was there. And I was approached by two men . ”

My brows lift. I respect a woman who doesn’t let age define her ability to experience romance. In fact, there was this one scroll that I read a few months ago about a queen with a gaggle of lovers.It wasn’t for me, but I could understand the appeal.

“Oh?”

Curiosity blooms in my chest, but I hesitate. I don’t want to pry—until I see the light in her eyes. She wants me to pry.

I smirk. “Human or enduar?”

She dips her shoulder to her chin. “One of each.”

I gasp. “Marvelous. Did you have a favorite?”

Fira shrugs, but before she can speak, Belia, another weaver, interjects.

"That's what we’ve been trying to find out for the last ten minutes.”

Fira only smiles, then shifts the conversation with a glint in her eye.

"It doesn’t matter who my favorite is. What does matter is what I learned from them. I may or may not have nestled myself tightly in between the two soldiers starving for affection. After it was given, they wagged their tongues like lost wolves.”

“You slept with two men at once so that you could get information? You’re a council member!” Ariano says, laughing.

She shrugs. “Most of the council is too busy to answer an old woman’s questions.”

I laugh. “I’m sure they would’ve answered anything you asked.”

“Stop interrupting. In fact, you two should be happiest to hear what I learned. It’s about the elves,” she says. Her eyes linger on me, and she nods slightly. The missive comes to the forefront of my mind again. “Apparently, these soldiers are a part of the scouts that patrol the area. And… they’ve seen nothing. No spies lurking. And when a group of them went to check on Shvathemar, they didn’t see any war preparations.”

My breath catches.

They hadn’t mentioned that in the meeting after my ascension, just explained what we are doing to prepare in addition to expanding and establishing ourselves once again. Perhaps soldiers did know more than I.

And really, I had little against the elves in general. Most of them were kind. And the few transplants in Enduvida integrated well.

But any mention of anything adjacent to King Arion makes my insides crawl. Darkness edges my vision. Soiling the brightness of the room.

Instead of thinking of the elves, I try to grasp at the threads of something else, and that’s when I remember this morning.

In an attempt to calm my racing heart, I remind myself that I lacked for nothing in this moment.

If I chose to believe Fira, then the king’s request for me was just more posturing. I could let it go. I would feel better tomorrow.

“That is good news,” I say belatedly, threading up a new section and letting the rhythm of my loom take me away.