Page 1 of The Curse Between Us

The battlefield was louder than Zephyr remembered, a cacophony of sound so relentless it threatened to shatter his focus. The sharp clang of weapons striking against one another echoed like thunder, reverberating through the ground and rattling his bones. The shouts of soldiers rose and fell like waves, mingling with the guttural cries of the wounded and the dying. Trumpets and horns blared at irregular intervals, their piercing wails summoning weary fighters into yet another desperate push forward. The smell of blood, sweat, and churned-up earth saturated the air, clinging to Zephyr's skin and filling his lungs with every ragged breath.

Above them, the brilliant golden sun burned high in the sky, its relentless rays reflecting off their armor and turning every metal surface into a mirror of searing light. Zephyr squinted against the glare, his vision blurring as sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His tunic clung to his body, soaked through and heavy, and he shifted his sword to his left hand to wipe his face with his right. His fingers came away grimy with dirt and smeared crimson, and he barely resisted the urge to scrape them against his thigh to rid himself of the sticky residue.

The whisper of metal against metal was the only warning he had. His instincts flared, and he spun just in time to see an enemy soldier lunging at him from his unguarded side. Zephyr barely had time to register the Rafrian’s wild-eyed expression before he swung his blade in a desperate arc. The sword connected with the side of the soldier’s helmless head with a sickening crunch, and they dropped immediately, their body crumpling to the ground like a marionette with severed strings.

Zephyr’s chest heaved as he stepped over the body, heart pounding like a war drum. He knew the rules of engagement — the ones Hadden repeated before every battle, his voice cold and unyielding: leave none alive. Mercy was a luxury they could not afford. And yet, Zephyr hesitated, glancing down at the fallen soldier. The man’s chest still rose and fell, shallow and weak. For a fleeting second, Zephyr considered dragging him to the side, out of the crush of bodies, but the thought passed as quickly as it came. He turned away, guilt gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

He whirled back into the fray, each step a struggle as he carved a path toward the remaining knot of Eskarven fighters. Their formation was breaking apart, bodies collapsing like felled timber under the relentless Rafrian advance. Zephyr’s heart sank like a stone in his chest as he calculated the odds of their survival. It had been a reckless plan from the start — this incursion over the mountains with a force so small it bordered on suicidal. But Hadden had been certain the element of surprise would tip the scales in their favor. He had believed that moving under the cover of darkness would give them the advantage they needed to strike a decisive blow.

But the Rafrians had been waiting.

Zephyr didn’t know how they’d known, but it hadn’t mattered. The ambush had shattered any hope of a swift victory, and there had been no time to call a strategic retreat — not that Hadden would have considered such a move. His brother had always been relentless, unwilling to concede defeat even when the odds were insurmountable. And now, it seemed that stubbornness would cost them all their lives.

Zephyr tightened his grip on his sword and shoved past a slight Rafrian soldier, barely more than a boy. The young man stumbled, eyes wide with terror, but made no move to strike back. He collapsed to the ground, curling into himself, too afraid or too exhausted to continue. Zephyr didn’t pause to decide which.

Ahead, he spotted Hadden’s tall form, a pillar of defiance amidst the chaos. His brother fought like a man possessed, each swing of Icelight a deadly arc of crystal light. The ancient blade, passed down through generations of Eskarven rulers, cleaved through armor and bone with effortless precision, whistling as it carved through the air. Hadden moved with ruthless efficiency, his expression set in grim determination, cutting down every Rafrian who dared step into his path.

Zephyr pushed himself harder, his muscles burning with exertion as he closed the distance between them. But just as he was within reach, movement on the opposite flank caught his attention. His stomach twisted as he caught sight of the golden sun on a crimson field — the banner of Rafria. And beneath it, cutting a bloody swath through the battlefield, was King Caldwell himself.

Zephyr’s breath hitched. He had not expected to see the king on the field, not against such a small force. Caldwell was no figurehead ruler; he was a warrior, fierce and unrelenting despite his advancing years. His sword cut through the crush of bodies like a scythe through wheat, each strike driving his soldiers forward with renewed fervor. And it was clear, from the direction of his advance, exactly where he was heading.

To Hadden.

Zephyr swore under his breath and surged forward, switching to purely defensive tactics. He deflected incoming blows rather than trying to land them, his only goal to reach his brother’s side before the king did. But the Rafrians pressed in around him, their morale surging at the sight of their king, and Zephyr’s limbs grew heavier with every step. His lungs burned, his vision narrowed, and still, he pushed on.

Because if Hadden fell, Eskarven would fall with him. And Zephyr refused to let that happen — not while he still drew breath.

Whether he was recognized as the Crown Prince or merely made himself a target by his refusal to halt and engage, a wave of enemy soldiers pressed towards Zephyr, impeding his progress. The clash of swords and the grunts of exertion blended into the battlefield’s relentless noise as he fought them off with sword and dagger, and occasionally his gloved fists. His muscles burned, and his limbs grew heavier with every strike, but he twisted and dodged, desperate to keep his eyes fixed on Hadden’s figure as he and King Caldwell drew nearer to one another.

A Rafrian soldier, seizing on Zephyr’s distraction, landed a sharp blow to his leg with a jagged blade. Pain exploded through his thigh, and Zephyr stumbled, barely managing to stay upright. Blood seeped into his boot, each step a fresh agony. With a snarl, he swung wildly with his sword, feeling the jarring thud as it bit into flesh and bone. The soldier crumpled, but more pressed in, their faces grim with determination. Zephyr fought like a man possessed, his breath ragged, heart hammering as he carved a bloody path toward his brother.

By the time he cleared the last of the Rafrians, King Caldwell had reached Hadden’s position. A circle had formed around them, soldiers on both sides instinctively giving the monarchs space. They circled one another with wary, grudging respect, their eyes locked in mutual understanding of the stakes. Caldwell was broader, his frame solid and weathered by years of experience, his movements efficient and deliberate. Hadden, taller and leaner, had the endurance of youth, his agility making him a difficult target. Were the potential ramifications not so dire, their duel would have been a spectacle of skill and artistry.

Every thrust, every parry was a perfectly-timed movement, and every block or sidestep resembled the step of an intricate dance. Hadden and Caldwell wove around one another, their blades clashing with a ringing noise that surprised Zephyr with its melodious beauty, a fleeting contrast to the chaos around them. The battlefield itself seemed to pause, every soldier watching the duel in breathless silence. Caldwell’s head was bare, as was the custom in Rafria, and the silver threads in his dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. He moved with a predator’s grace, each motion calculated, patient.

Zephyr limped closer, dread pooling in his stomach as he noticed the subtle changes in Hadden’s movements. His brother’s footwork grew sluggish, his swings slightly less precise. Fatigue was setting in, and Caldwell, relentless as the tide, began to press the advantage. Zephyr’s pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the distant clang of weapons as he pushed himself forward, dragging his injured leg, every step agony.

He was still too far to hear what Hadden said, but whatever it was made Caldwell’s face twist in fury. The king let out an inhuman roar, his sword flashing in a deadly arc. Hadden barely dodged, a sharp laugh escaping him — a reckless, defiant sound that rang out across the field like a challenge. And that was when Caldwell struck again.

Zephyr shouted a warning, but it was too late. Caldwell’s sword buried itself in Hadden’s side, the force behind the blow cutting through his armor as though it were paper. Hadden’s eyes went wide, the laughter on his face replaced with stunned disbelief. Blood bloomed across his tunic, and he sank slowly to his knees, head bowing as his strength drained away like water through his fingers.

Distantly, Zephyr heard someone screaming, a raw, desperate sound that tore through the unnatural quiet. It took him a moment to realize the voice was his own. He forced his battered body forward, vision tunneling, every nerve in his body screaming in protest. King Caldwell stepped closer to Hadden, his sword hanging loose in his grip. He drew a small, jeweled dagger from his belt, its blade catching the sunlight in a cruel glint, and pressed it to Hadden’s throat.

But he did not immediately move it. And that hesitation, that single heartbeat of delay, became his undoing.

With what was surely the last of his strength, Hadden lifted Icelight in a final, defiant swing. The blade carved into Caldwell’s side, biting deep, and the king let out a gasp that echoed across the silent field. He staggered, eyes wide with shock, blood dripping from the wound as he fell to his knees beside Hadden.

As Caldwell collapsed, his hand jerked involuntarily, and Zephyr’s scream cut off abruptly as something heavy struck the back of his head. His vision exploded in a cascade of white sparks before everything went black, the world vanishing in an instant of crushing silence.

◆◆◆

When next he woke, Zephyr found himself in a place he did not recognize. Gone was the field of battle, the carnage, the shouting. Instead, he was in a small, round stone chamber, with sunlight spilling in through slitted windows high above his head. The light was blinding, a sharp contrast to the darkness he’d been in, and it only served to intensify the throbbing ache in his head. With a groan, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for the comfort of darkness once again.

He reached a hand to the back of his skull, his fingers brushing against sticky, matted blood. His breath hitched at the contact, the pain sharp and immediate. His leg flared with fiery agony from the blow he had taken there, but the cloth wrapped tightly around it gave him some reassurance. His leg, though injured, was still functional—barely. When he shakily pushed himself up, he was able to bear his weight, albeit with a grimace.

Shifting away from the intense sunlight, Zephyr dared to open his eyes again, scanning the unfamiliar room. The stone walls were soft gold in hue, warm to the touch, as if the chamber itself was a vessel to contain the sunlight. The floor was wooden, the same warm, golden shade as the stone, and the entire room felt as though he were encased in a drop of sunlight itself. It was strangely peaceful, despite the discomfort that still lingered in his head and leg.

At the far end of the room was a narrow door with a barred window set at eye-level. His gaze was drawn to it as if it were his only hope of understanding where he was, and he moved toward it, pressing his face against the cold bars. He craned his neck, desperate for any sight of the outside world, but the angle was awkward, and he could see nothing beyond.

Suddenly, a voice broke the silence. It was flat, but not unfriendly. "You're awake."

Zephyr froze at the unexpected sound, his body tensing in reflex. A shadow fell across the window, signaling that someone was moving just outside it, standing in front of him. "Good."

Zephyr's eyes narrowed, his voice rough as he demanded, "Is it? Where am I?"

The voice on the other side paused for a moment before responding, its tone unreadable. "Don't you know?"

"If I knew, would I be asking?" Zephyr shot back sharply, his irritation clear.

There was a long pause, followed by a soft huff of laughter. "Fair enough, young prince." The words lingered in the air for a beat. Then, with a weighty tone, the voice continued, "Or rather, young king."

Zephyr’s heart lurched at the words, and he couldn’t suppress the pang of grief that gripped him. So Hadden was indeed dead. He swallowed hard, the memory of his brother’s laughter before the final blow, the shock that had registered on Hadden’s face as the blade landed, it all rushed back. Hadden had fought, fought until his body had screamed in protest, had pushed every last ounce of strength into that one final thrust. Even then, Hadden had not veered from his path.

The grief threatened to swallow him, but he pushed it down, focusing instead on the present. If Hadden were dead, why was he still alive? Surely, the Rafrians—his enemies—must have recognized him for what he was. Why would they leave him alive? Why miss the opportunity to rid themselves of both the king and his heir in one swift stroke?

He doubted he would get any answers. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, the heat of the sun pressing down on him despite his position in the shadow. The sensation of discomfort rankled, but Zephyr forced himself to hold his ground. He was not one to beg, but survival sometimes required it. His voice was steady, despite the pain clouding his thoughts. “Please, might I have some water?”

“Step back,” the voice instructed. “Hands on the wall behind you. If you make any move, you’ll be dead before you can even think to escape.”

Zephyr froze. He had no weapons, his head throbbed, and his leg was weak. He could easily imagine the razor-sharp blade of a sword sliding across his throat in an instant. He had been called many things in his life, but never unintelligent. He complied, stepping back and pressing his hands against the cold stone wall, his posture tense but controlled.

The door creaked open slowly, and Zephyr’s gaze immediately locked onto the young woman who stepped inside. Her red hair caught the light like fire, and in her hand, she held a flask of water, the other gripping a sharp blade, its edge glinting ominously in the light. Zephyr remained still, wary but cautious, as she placed the flask on the ground at his feet and stepped back.

Without hesitation, he knelt, reaching for the flask and drinking deeply. The water, though not as cool and refreshing as the streams back home, soothed his parched throat, washing away some of the fog in his mind.

After a moment of silence, Zephyr spoke again, his voice quieter but no less steady. “Your king,” he began. “Did he survive?”

The woman’s expression remained unreadable, but she hesitated before answering. “I am not at liberty to discuss the health of the king.”

Zephyr snorted, taking another deep pull from the flask. He had expected as much. “Very well,” he said with a sharp edge to his tone. “If you please, I would like to speak with someone of sufficient rank. Someone who can discuss the matter of my release.”

The woman’s gaze flickered, disbelief written plainly on her face. “Release?” she repeated incredulously. “You cannot be serious.”

Before Zephyr could respond, a new voice cut through the conversation like a blade. It was young, but carried an undeniable weight of authority. “Enough, Eileen.”

Zephyr’s body stiffened at the sound of the voice, and Eileen, the red-haired woman, sighed, her footsteps echoing as she moved away down the hallway.

Then, silence.

Zephyr turned, prepared to speak, but before he could say anything, the door swung open once again. This time, standing in the doorway was a slender young man with dark hair and lines of exhaustion around his eyes. His gaze was sharp, intelligent in a way that made Zephyr uneasy.

"Will the chief strategist of the Rafrian forces do, Your Highness?" The man’s voice was calm, but there was a sharpness beneath it that Zephyr immediately recognized.

Zephyr blinked, taken aback. "Herbert Rellis?" he asked cautiously, his surprise evident. The mastermind behind much of the Rafrian military’s success couldn’t possibly be so—

"Not what you were expecting?" Herbert raised an eyebrow at him, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

Zephyr was momentarily stunned. “I thought you would be older,” he admitted.

Herbert smirked. “And I thought you would be taller.”

Zephyr, his surprise momentarily giving way to an amused glint in his eye, allowed himself a small, rueful smile. “Sir Herbert—”

Before Zephyr could continue, Herbert raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t like this,” he said with a frown. “You’re a problem we have to solve. And quickly. Unfortunately, there are a number of other problems that need solving, and your presence here complicates matters.”

Zephyr’s heart skipped a beat. His suspicion was confirmed—he was to be quietly eliminated. The Rafrians had won. The war had ended, and his role was done.

"I understand," Zephyr said, his voice even, though inside, the familiar acceptance of death washed over him. He’d made his peace with death long ago, ever since he had ridden into battle with Hadden, knowing the risks. But his mind still lingered on the one thing that worried him more than his own death: the future of Eskarven. Without a clear heir, the kingdom would tear itself apart in a struggle for power.

He braced himself, his body tensing for the inevitable strike. But instead of the sharp slice of a sword, there was only a soft clink, the sound of chains being unlocked. The chains that had bound his ankles fell away, and Zephyr looked up, startled, to meet Herbert’s eyes.

“I have a plan,” Herbert said quietly, his expression unreadable.

◆◆◆

Herbert ignored Zephyr’s continued questioning, leading him through the maze-like corridors of the castle with a purposeful silence. The oppressive heat of the stone walls, combined with the thick, suffocating air, was starting to take its toll. Zephyr wiped the sweat from his brow and resisted the urge to stumble, focusing instead on keeping his expression composed. The last thing he needed was to show any sign of weakness, especially in the face of his captors. After all, his survival hinged on his ability to navigate this strange new reality.

The hallway twisted and turned, deliberately designed to disorient anyone unfamiliar with it. Zephyr counted each step, aware that he was being led deeper into enemy territory, a place where he could not afford to let his guard down. The subtle strain in his muscles from the journey, combined with the near-constant throb in his head, made each passing second feel drawn-out, but he said nothing. He couldn’t afford to irritate Herbert into turning on him, not when his own life hung in the balance.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at a simple wooden door, and Zephyr noted the gold plaque embedded in its surface: Strategic Command. The title alone sent a ripple of unease through him. Inside, he would find those who held the power over the fate of both their kingdoms.

Herbert pushed open the door and gestured for Zephyr to enter. The room inside was stark, functional—designed for its purpose rather than for comfort. Zephyr lowered himself into a seat, careful to keep his back towards the door, eyes still trained on his captor. He didn’t trust Herbert, not completely. His instincts screamed that this was not a man to be underestimated, no matter how his composed, almost disinterested demeanor seemed.

Herbert wasted no time getting to work, sorting through the papers strewn across the desk, his mind clearly elsewhere. Zephyr’s patience, already tested by the past few hours of silence and confusion, was wearing thin. Still, he held his tongue. “You’re in no danger here,” Herbert finally muttered, glancing up from his papers. Zephyr didn’t flinch, but instead maintained his guarded posture, the unease of being in enemy territory simmering just below the surface.

“Forgive me if I remain cautious,” Zephyr replied dryly. “It is not so easy to abandon years of conditioning that tells me that I am in enemy territory.”

Herbert’s lips twitched into a humorless grin. “You are. That’s the problem.”

Zephyr’s eyes narrowed. The weight of those words sank in, but before he could respond, Herbert made a non-committal noise, dismissing the matter for the moment. “I fear it won’t be that simple. Despite my proven record, there are those at court who disagree with everything I propose—simply on principle. And currently, there are many who would like nothing better than to see your head separated from your body.”

The cold edge in Herbert’s voice made Zephyr’s pulse quicken, but he fought to keep his composure. He had no desire to be just another casualty of this endless war, and he knew all too well how quickly enemies could turn allies in such an environment.

“I would prefer to avoid that eventuality,” Zephyr said, his voice calm but firm.

“As would I,” Herbert replied, leaning back in his chair, his eyes hardening slightly. “You’re far more useful to us alive.”

The words caught Zephyr off guard. “Useful in what way?”

Before Herbert could answer, there came a firm knock on the door, and Zephyr stiffened, instinctively straightening in his seat. The door swung open, and in stepped a tall figure, commanding and unwavering. At the sight of him, Zephyr’s hand shot instinctively to where his sword would have been—but he was unarmed.

The man in the doorway wore a look of quiet disdain, his posture one of quiet authority. “We have no fight here, Your Highness,” he said with a certain coldness that sent a chill down Zephyr’s spine.

“We always have a fight, Your Highness,” Zephyr retorted sharply. “Or do you prefer General?”

The man sighed, running a hand through his hair as if weary of the back-and-forth. “At the moment, it’s in both capacities that I’ve come here. Since we are of equal rank, I think perhaps you could just call me Alec.”

Zephyr’s eyes narrowed, taking in the familiar face. Alec, the notorious General, the prince who had commanded the Rafrian military for years. This was the last man he had expected to see standing in front of him.

“Perhaps I will,” Zephyr said, his voice low. “Though, unless your father has died and your elder brother has suddenly abdicated, we are no longer of equal rank.”

Alec gave him a brief nod, a flicker of understanding passing over his features. “Indeed,” he acknowledged, though there was no warmth in his tone. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall in a relaxed but calculating manner.

“If my memory serves me well,” Alec continued, “you will not truly be king until you are crowned in your own hall.”

Zephyr blinked, startled by the prince’s dismissive tone. Alec’s words were a sharp reminder of just how much had changed since Hadden’s death. The kingdom was in turmoil, and Zephyr’s place in it was uncertain at best. But before he could respond, Alec turned to Herbert, and the conversation shifted.

“It isn’t looking good,” Alec said, his gaze hardening. “All the council members from Father’s generation are in an uproar. We’ve always been at war, they say. It’s what defines us. There’s no way to make any sort of treaty work.”

Zephyr leaned forward in his chair, intrigued. “A treaty?” he asked, his voice cautious but curious. He had proposed it once before, only for Hadden to dismiss it out of hand. But now, in the wake of Hadden’s death, perhaps things had changed. Perhaps he could make a real difference.

He had seen the horrors of war firsthand—the blood, the lives lost, the endless cycle of violence. He had hoped for peace, once. And now, with his brother gone, Zephyr realized that the moment had come for him to step into the role he had never expected to occupy. But could he truly end the war, or was it already too late?

“I would be prepared to entertain the possibility,” Zephyr said slowly, weighing his words carefully. His gaze shifted to Alec as he processed the implications. “Then how does your father feel about it?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer but hoping for something different. King Caldwell, the driving force behind years of bloody conflict, would never willingly agree to peace.

Alec’s expression hardened. “He lives,” he said, his voice tight. “But he has not woken since he fell on the field, and our healers can do nothing for him.”

Zephyr’s brow furrowed. “He was struck by Icelight,” he murmured, almost to himself. “A blow from that blade is nearly always fatal.”

Alec nodded, his eyes filled with the weight of the situation. “I know.”

“But then,” Zephyr said, his mind racing, “the crown will pass to your older brother, will it not?” He knew little of Prince Edric, but if anyone would be open to peace, it was surely him.

Herbert sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, Edric is currently preoccupied with his father’s condition. He’s sitting vigil at the king’s side while attempting to manage the duties of a ruler.”

Zephyr’s heart sank at the thought of yet another obstacle in his path. “Then we are running out of time,” he said softly, his mind spinning with the weight of everything that had been revealed. “We cannot allow this war to continue.”

Alec and Herbert exchanged a glance before the prince finally spoke. “Very well,” he said, his tone reluctantly giving in. “You may speak with Edric. But first, I think you may want to freshen up.” His gaze flicked to Zephyr’s sweat-streaked clothing with a smirk. “You’re hardly in a state to meet him like this.”