Page 18 of The Curse Between Us

Zephyr rode through the mountains, the familiar path unwinding before him as he hummed softly under his breath. The cool breeze lifted his hair, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the sun as it sank lower in the sky. It had been weeks since the meadow’s unexpected discovery, but even now, the idea of its existence filled him with a quiet, unexpected joy. The events of that first day felt like a dream, but there was no denying how much the meadow had changed things—for the better. Edric had become more than a shadow of his former self, their shared pain now replaced by something warm and comforting whenever they were close.

He had no explanation for it. Why they could touch, why they could be near one another without the searing agony that had once ruled their lives, Zephyr couldn't say. But he was thankful, and he hoped it wasn't a fleeting change. Time had passed since their marriage, and Edric was due to visit Eskarven soon. They’d have time to unravel the mystery, and perhaps learn if this newfound peace was linked to the passing days or the strange qualities of the meadow itself. Either way, Zephyr felt an inner peace that he hadn't known in years.

But as the sun dipped lower, the temperature began to drop. Zephyr shivered, his thoughts pulled back to the present moment. The journey ahead would take him through colder terrain, and the further he went, the more the chill seemed to creep into his bones. He reached for the thick cloak in his saddlebags and draped it over his shoulders, sighing in relief at the warmth it provided. The horse beneath him snorted, clearly used to the wind and cold, but Zephyr’s own mount had grown restless, eager to get back to the castle.

They reached the foot of the mountains, where the path veered westward toward Eskarven. Zephyr glanced down at the snow beneath him. Normally, the snow would be thick here, building up as they moved closer to the castle. Yet, the ground remained only lightly dusted with snow, no deeper than an inch. Zephyr’s brow furrowed. It was strange. Very strange. He urged his horse forward, the sound of hooves on frozen earth the only noise to break the silence.

As he approached a curve in the road, he halted, sliding off his horse to press his palm into the ground. The snow, while fresh, had not accumulated in the usual way, nor was there a hint of the cold that should have been building as they neared the castle. Zephyr’s mind raced, trying to piece together what this could mean. The last few weeks had been filled with so many unknowns, so many questions. This could be another one.

Leaping back onto his horse, Zephyr spurred it forward, more urgently now. The castle was still ahead, but this odd anomaly gnawed at him. The scholars at the academy might offer an explanation—one that was grounded in logic and reason. Zephyr needed to ease the unease growing in his gut.

It wasn’t long before he arrived at the castle gates, darkness having already claimed the sky. The torches lining the stone causeway flickered in the evening breeze, casting dancing shadows. The guards snapped to attention, their salute sharp as they watched him approach. Zephyr offered a quick nod in return before leading his horse toward the stables, leaving her to an attendant with a familiar flick of his wrist. There were more urgent matters to attend to.

Without stopping to change, Zephyr found the first servant he could and sent them off to find Clara and Ollie. His pace quickened as he made his way to a small audience room, his thoughts tangled. He paced near the hearth, feeling the warmth against his chilled skin, but the cold dread inside him only seemed to grow. Could such a small detail as less snow mean something larger? He couldn’t afford to dismiss it, not with everything else that had happened in recent weeks.

Ollie entered first, his usual scowl firmly in place. "Now what?" he grumbled, plopping into the nearest chair with a resigned sigh.

"I’ll explain shortly," Zephyr replied, his voice tight with a mixture of apprehension and purpose. "I’d rather only say it once, though, so we’ll wait for Lady Clara."

At the mention of Clara’s name, Ollie’s frown softened, a flash of respect crossing his features. Zephyr couldn’t help but smile at the contrast. Ollie, tough and ever cynical, reserved his respect for very few, and Clara was certainly one of them.

The High Priestess entered moments later, her presence calm yet commanding. “Your Majesty,” she greeted Zephyr, her voice smooth but laced with curiosity. “Sergeant Turner.” She nodded to Ollie, who rose immediately and bowed, pulling out a chair for her. Clara gathered her robes, settling herself with a quiet grace.

Zephyr cleared his throat before speaking, the weight of his own words settling heavily. "I was riding home from the mountains today," he began, not bothering to explain further, though he knew they both understood the reason behind his trips. "As I neared the castle, I noticed something… odd. The snow—it isn’t deepening as it normally would. It’s only an inch thick, yet we’re so close to the castle now."

Ollie’s scowl deepened, his lips curling in mild annoyance. “And you didn’t think it’s just because of all the traffic? You’ve been traipsing through those mountains for weeks, and there’s all sorts of folks tagging along, poking around. The snow gets trampled.”

Zephyr was about to respond but paused, realizing the flaw in Ollie’s logic. His mouth closed, and a slight flush crept up his neck. That makes sense, he thought. But there’s something more to it. I know there is.

Before he could find his words, Clara spoke, her expression unyielding. "That could be the case, Sergeant. But I don't believe that’s the explanation here." She looked at Zephyr, her gaze piercing through him with an unsettling understanding. “There are more things at play in these mountains than we realize.”

She rose slowly from her seat and walked to the stone wall, laying her hand against it as though sensing something beyond the surface. “This is not the first time strange phenomena have reached Eskarven. The land itself... is changing.”

A chill ran through Zephyr, one that had nothing to do with the fire at his back. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. The weight of her words pressed into him, and a knot of dread tightened in his stomach.

Clara met Zephyr’s gaze, her expression carefully controlled but the shadow of unease still clouding her eyes. She had always been the picture of unwavering resolve, a constant force at his side through both the highs and the lows of his reign. But now, for the first time in his life, Zephyr saw that faint flicker of doubt, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. It unsettled him, even though he understood why it was there.

“Earlier this morning,” she began, her voice steady despite the weight of what she was about to reveal, “I was in the sanctuary, performing my usual contemplation. It’s a quiet place, a place for focus and connection. But then, I heard something... a loud noise. A cracking sound, almost like ice shattering beneath pressure.” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to recall every detail. Zephyr waited, sensing that she was not yet finished.

“When I went to check, none of the sculptures had been disturbed, but I could feel the unease stirring within me. I took a torch and descended to the catacombs. It’s the one place beneath Eskarven that remains untouched by time, preserved and sacred.” Her voice dropped to a hushed tone, the weight of her words heavy in the room. “There, in the burial chamber, I found it.”

Zephyr could tell that this moment was difficult for her to relive, the unease creeping into her voice as she continued. “A fissure in the earth. It ran right down the middle of the chamber, splitting the stone floor. It wasn’t deep, but it was unmistakable. And it wasn’t just a crack—it splintered outward in many directions, like something had reached upward from beneath, and then slammed down with enormous force, as though... as though it was trying to break free.” She paused, her eyes flicking to Ollie for a brief moment before returning to Zephyr.

Zephyr remained silent, his mind processing the gravity of her words. He could sense something was amiss, something deep beneath the earth itself that was causing these strange occurrences. It wasn't just the snow, or the unsettling changes in the land. Something much darker was stirring.

Ollie, ever the skeptic, leaned forward in his chair, his brow furrowed in confusion. “But the earth is frozen solid. It’s winter, Clara—how could it just split apart like that?” His voice carried a touch of disbelief, but there was no denying the edge of concern in his tone. Clara’s answer was slow, deliberate, as if she was still grappling with the enormity of what she had discovered.

“I’ve wondered that too,” she said quietly, the torchlight flickering in her eyes. “But I’ve learned, over the years, that not all changes are visible at first. Some are beneath the surface, waiting to manifest. I told you once, Zephyr, that not all change is good.” She turned to him fully now, her gaze unwavering. “And I fear that this—this splitting of the earth—is only the beginning. I fear what it may precede.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, the crackling of the fire the only sound to fill the stillness. Zephyr closed his eyes, his mind racing. They had all known that this day might come, that the signs would eventually become too significant to ignore. He had hoped, foolishly, that they might be spared the worst. But now, with Clara’s revelation, there was no denying the truth. The land itself was responding, shifting, changing in ways they couldn't yet understand—and it was clear that whatever had caused this fissure was not a random occurrence.

He drew in a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, but the weight of the situation pressed down on him like a suffocating fog. It was no longer just about the unknown dangers lurking in the mountains. This was bigger—much bigger—and there was no time left to deny it.

“Spread the word,” Zephyr said, his voice strong despite the unease gnawing at his insides. He opened his eyes once more, looking between Ollie and Clara, both of whom were watching him intently. “Anything out of the ordinary—no matter how small—must be reported immediately. I want every detail, every sign of change, brought to us without delay. There can be no more hesitation.”

Ollie gave him a sharp salute, his face set in a grim expression. He wasn’t one for flowery speeches, but his respect for Zephyr was clear in that single gesture. Zephyr nodded to him, signaling the importance of the task ahead.

“Ollie,” Zephyr continued, turning to the sergeant, “tomorrow, you will ride for the outlying villages. Take ten guards with you. We cannot afford to leave them defenseless. If this disturbance is spreading, we need to know, and we need to be prepared. Gather any information you can, and make sure the people are safe.”

Ollie didn’t hesitate. “Understood,” he said with a quick nod, already planning his route in his mind. He had a reputation for getting things done quickly, and Zephyr knew he could rely on him.

Turning to Clara, Zephyr’s expression softened slightly, though the seriousness of the situation remained. Clara was more than a priestess to him; she was his closest confidant, someone whose wisdom and insight had guided him through countless challenges. Her strength was undeniable, but Zephyr could see the strain in her eyes. She had always been the one to lead them in matters of faith, but now she would need to lend her strength in other ways.

“And you, my lady,” Zephyr said, his voice gentler now, “pray for us all. This is a trial unlike any we have faced before.”

Clara met his gaze, her eyes dark and knowing. There was no fear in her; she would rise to the challenge, as she always had. But Zephyr could see the burden in her eyes, the weight of the responsibility she now carried.

“I will,” she said softly, her voice unwavering. “But we must be ready. For whatever comes next.”

◆◆◆

The weight of the night still clung to Zephyr as he made his way to the temple early the next morning. He had barely slept, the unrest of the previous evening gnawing at him like a persistent shadow. The knowledge of the growing fissure in the earth and the quiet menace it signified haunted him, and though he had done all he could to prepare for this, the reality was far more unsettling than he had imagined. He needed answers. Clara had always been the one who could provide clarity when everything else seemed clouded, and today, he needed that clarity more than ever.

The temple was quiet, as it always was at this hour. The air inside was cool, scented with incense, and filled with an unnatural stillness. One of the younger attendants was kneeling before the altar, the soft murmur of his prayers filling the space. Zephyr didn’t interrupt him, respecting the sacredness of the moment. Instead, he wandered, his gaze drifting over the ice sculptures lining the walls. They had always been beautiful, these works of frozen art, depicting battles long past, legends of Plenty and Abyss locked in eternal struggle.

The cold beauty of them now felt different to him. His stomach twisted as he examined the familiar scene of war, the depiction of forces fighting for dominance. The battle between Plenty and Abyss had always been an allegory to him, a piece of history. But now, in the midst of the growing strangeness around them, the scene felt ominous. What if this is not just an allegory? What if this is where we’re headed?

“I cannot admire them the same way I always have,” came Clara’s voice, quiet but clear. The suddenness of it startled him, and he turned to find her standing there, her face shadowed with the same concerns that plagued him. “I want to ask them, to demand an answer—why this, and why now? But they do not speak to me.”

Zephyr’s gaze lingered on the sculptures, his lips pressed together in thought. He understood her frustration. They had all been searching for answers, for signs, but the world was growing more unpredictable with each passing day. He gave the frozen figures one last, lingering look before gesturing toward the stone steps in the far corner of the room.

“They are not what I came here to see,” he said, his voice low and steady. Clara nodded, her expression unreadable, before she motioned for him to follow.

She led him across the room toward the stairs, the young attendant looking up nervously as they passed. Clara didn’t acknowledge him, her focus entirely on Zephyr, and he did the same. As she reached the base of the steps, she plucked a torch from the wall bracket, the flame flickering softly as she tucked her robe in one hand to avoid it catching fire. Zephyr followed her without hesitation, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what awaited them below.

As they descended, the cold that filled the catacombs was thick with silence, as if the stone walls themselves were holding their breath. The usual sense of peace that came with the chill was absent today, replaced with something far more foreboding. Zephyr felt a shiver crawl up his spine, the quiet weight of uncertainty pressing on his chest. The further down they went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, and the back of his neck prickled in response.

Clara’s pace slowed as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and she came to a sudden halt, causing Zephyr to almost stumble into her. She held the torch high, casting a stark light across the chamber. “There,” she said softly, sweeping her arm in front of her to illuminate the floor.

Zephyr stepped carefully around her, his gaze dropping to the floor. He was immediately struck by what he saw. The floor of the chamber, which had once been smooth and solid, was now marred by a jagged crack that ran the length of the room, splitting through the path between the tombs. It was not deep, but its breadth was enough to make Zephyr’s stomach tighten with unease. The crack seemed to stretch endlessly, splintering in multiple directions like something had violently pushed its way upward from beneath.

He was reminded of a conversation with Hadden, back in the days before everything had shifted. Hadden had spoken with a fevered gleam in his eye about the possibility of a siege, the joy in his voice as he discussed the might of a battering ram smashing into the gates of the Rafrian palace. Zephyr could hear the words again now, but with a sickening sense of certainty—this was not a siege, but something far more insidious. It was a blow from beneath the earth, the first of many. Whatever was stirring beneath the surface had begun its assault.

Zephyr swallowed hard, forcing his voice to steady. “No change since yesterday?” he asked, his words echoing unnervingly in the empty chamber.

Clara’s response was almost too quiet. “None.” Her voice was firm but lacked the reassurance Zephyr desperately sought. “We’ve been monitoring it hourly, my lord. If anything happens, we will alert you immediately.”

Zephyr nodded absently, his gaze still locked on the crack. What are we dealing with here? The unease that had been building for days now seemed to solidify into something undeniable. The change in the land was not just some oddity—it was a warning. A herald of something far more dangerous, and far more real, than any of them had imagined.

He glanced at Clara, his eyes narrowing with a new determination. “Good,” he said, his voice low. “Keep me informed. I’ll need to know immediately if anything changes.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of the silence hung heavy between them. Zephyr turned his gaze to the closest tomb, his feet taking him toward it with a measured step. The torchlight flickered and danced as he approached the stone wall, his eyes drawn to the burnished silver plaque embedded there. It bore Hadden’s name, the dates of his birth, coronation, and death—details Zephyr had read countless times before, but never with this sense of loss.

Zephyr's fingers hovered over the cold stone as his thoughts drifted to his brother. Hadden had been the one who stood beside him through the darkest days, the one who had shared his ambitions, his dreams, his frustrations. Yet, when the time had come to face the future, they had been at odds. Hadden had warned him, his words still fresh in Zephyr’s mind: You have betrayed us, Zephyr. This alliance will destroy us all.

Zephyr clenched his jaw, the words lingering like an echo in the back of his mind. Perhaps Hadden had been right. Perhaps he had been too quick to make choices without understanding the true cost. But Hadden was gone now, buried behind this cold wall, and there was no turning back. Zephyr would have to carry the weight of these decisions alone, just as he had carried the weight of the crown for all these years.

“I miss you,” Zephyr murmured to the tomb, his voice barely a whisper. Even in death, his brother’s shadow loomed over him, a reminder of all they had shared and all they had lost. The words felt hollow, though, and as Zephyr turned to leave, he knew that nothing could change the past.

Clara was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, her figure outlined by the torchlight. She had not left her post, and her gaze was steady as ever. When Zephyr emerged, she asked, “What will you do now?”

He met her eyes, his expression hardening with resolve. “The only thing I can do,” he replied, his voice steady. “I will call an assembly of the castle’s residents. Word must be spread of the growing danger. Not just here, but in Rafria as well. After that…” He shrugged, the weight of it all pressing heavily on him. “I will do whatever I must to ensure the safety and security of my people.”

Clara nodded, her eyes searching his face, but there was no argument. She understood as well as he did. They were entering a time of darkness, and the path ahead would require more than just leadership—it would require everything they had.

◆◆◆

The next two days passed in tense anticipation, as if the entire kingdom was waiting for something—waiting for the storm that never seemed to come. Zephyr, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm was not just inevitable, but already starting to form in the very air around them. Every morning, he awoke to a restless sleep, haunted by the strange events unfolding around him. The nights had become lonelier; his bed felt too vast, too empty. He could still remember the nights with Edric—how they had shared the space, even when they couldn’t touch, the silent understanding between them a comfort in itself.

Bianca, his faithful fox, slept curled at his feet, a comforting presence even though her dreams were anything but peaceful. Zephyr had noticed the tremors and soft whimpers in her sleep, as though she too was sensing something out of place. It wasn’t like her. He often found himself waking in the middle of the night, his hand instinctively reaching out to stroke the soft fur along her back, trying to soothe her as she shivered in her sleep. But even as he calmed her, a quiet unease settled into him. What was it that she saw behind her closed eyelids? It was more than the shifting winds or the frost creeping through the walls—it was something deeper, something darker.

On the fourth morning, as the weight of the uncertainty seemed to press down on him even more heavily, Zephyr was woken by a rapid, insistent knocking at his chamber door. His mind was foggy from another night of interrupted sleep, but he forced himself to shake it off as he hastily wrapped himself in his robe and slipped his feet into his fur-lined slippers. "Enter!" he called out, his voice more tired than he intended. He made his way to the door, barely managing to keep his balance as he skidded toward it.

Pierce entered first, his face usually bright with mirth now grave and serious, followed by Wilfred and Hannah. The sight of them immediately set Zephyr’s pulse racing. Something had happened. He could see it in their eyes.

“A rider has come in from the mountains,” Pierce said, his voice tight with urgency. “You’ll want to hear this, Zephyr.”

Zephyr wasted no time, already slipping into his boots and motioning for them to lead the way. His mind was already racing with a dozen possible explanations, none of them good. Together, they moved quickly to the audience hall, where a group of courtiers was already waiting, their faces pale with concern. As Zephyr made his way through the room, he nodded politely to the onlookers, but his focus was entirely on the young woman kneeling in the center, her head bowed and her body tense with apprehension.

“Please, rise,” Zephyr commanded gently, his voice firm but reassuring. “Tell us your name and what you have seen.”

The young woman rose slowly, her voice trembling but determined as she spoke. “I am Muriel, Your Majesty,” she said, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “My family and I journey into the mountains to bring back water for the castle. It is our regular task.”

Zephyr nodded, trying to put her at ease. “And we thank you for your service, Muriel,” he said. “What news do you bring?”

Muriel reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a small flask, her hands shaking as she presented it to him. Zephyr’s stomach tightened. The flask’s contents were not something anyone would expect to see from the mountains.

With a steady hand, Muriel unscrewed the stopper and tilted the flask, allowing its contents to spill slowly onto the stone floor. The liquid that poured out was not clear and pure, as it should have been, but thick and grey. The foul smell of ashes rose immediately, filling the room with a heavy, acrid scent.

Zephyr’s breath caught in his throat, and a stunned silence fell over the courtiers. A few gasps echoed around the hall as the realization of what they were seeing sank in. This was no ordinary water. This was something far worse.

“All of it is like this?” Zephyr asked, leaning forward, his voice strained with disbelief.

Muriel nodded, her eyes wide and filled with fear. “We visited every spring we know of, Your Majesty. All of them were like this. My father instructed me to bring it to you at once, with all possible speed.”

The room erupted into worried whispers, panic creeping into the voices of the courtiers. Zephyr held up his hand, silencing the room with a gesture. “Please,” he said, his voice steady but authoritative. “Our alarm will serve no purpose if we do not remain calm.”

Once the noise died down, Zephyr turned his gaze back to Muriel. “Your father was right to send you. Thank you for your quick action and service, Muriel.” He gestured to one of the attendants who had been standing nearby, motioning for them to assist the young woman. “Rest now, and take comfort. You have done well.”

The attendant moved forward, offering a comforting hand to Muriel, who gave a small nod of gratitude before she was led away. Zephyr watched her go, his heart sinking as the reality of the situation settled in. They depended on the mountain springs for water, especially in these cold months when the snow was frozen solid, and now those very sources were tainted. If this contamination spread…

Wilfred, ever the quick thinker, stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern. “Your Majesty, perhaps the scholars at the academy can help. Could they create a purification system, a filter, maybe?”

Zephyr looked at him intently, his mind already turning to the possibilities. “We will try,” he said, his voice firm. “If a filter can be made, then we will do so. But we may also need to travel to the springs themselves, to see what can be done at the source.” He paused, thinking of the many people relying on this water, both within the castle and beyond. “We can’t afford to let this go unchecked.”

Wilfred nodded, already gathering his thoughts as he turned to leave. “I will see to it immediately, Your Majesty.”

Next, Zephyr looked to Hannah, his other cousin. “Consult with the palace staff,” he ordered. “Take careful inventory of our stores, and prepare a plan for rations. If this situation worsens, we must be prepared.”

Hannah’s face drained of color as the gravity of the situation hit her. She nodded, then turned to gather the necessary people, her steps quick and purposeful.

Zephyr’s eyes then turned to Pierce. His trusted right hand. The one person who knew him better than anyone else. “Pierce,” he said quietly, his voice dropping low enough that only his cousin could hear, “You know what I must ask of you.”

Pierce was already shaking his head, a resigned expression on his face. “Zeph—”

“What kind of king would I be if I remained here, hiding behind the walls of my palace?” Zephyr cut him off, his voice steady with determination. He rose from his seat, brushing off the weight of the crown that had been placed upon his head so many years ago. He glanced at his cousin, a faint smile on his lips. “It won’t be for long this time, I swear. I will make the journey into the mountains to see this for myself, and then I will return.”

Pierce’s eyes darkened with concern, but his pride for Zephyr could not be hidden. He gave a reluctant smile. “There’s no arguing with you, is there?”

“No,” Zephyr replied, a hint of humor in his voice. “I am the king, after all.”

At this, Pierce laughed and pulled Zephyr into a tight embrace. “Be careful,” he murmured, his voice low and full of care. “I do not like this.”

“Nor do I,” Zephyr answered, pulling back with a resigned shrug. “And that is why we must stop it.”

Turning to face the crowd, Zephyr straightened his back and lifted his chin high. “I will be venturing forth into the western mountains personally,” he announced, his voice carrying through the room. “Lord Pierce will serve as regent in my absence, as he has done before.” He took a deep breath, surveying the guards standing at attention around the perimeter of the room. “Do I have any volunteers to accompany me?”

Without hesitation, every single one of the guards raised their hands, their faces a mixture of concern and loyalty. Zephyr felt a surge of gratitude. Despite the dangers ahead, they were ready to follow him into the unknown.

“Thank you,” Zephyr said, a small but genuine smile curving his lips. “We leave in one hour.”

◆◆◆

The smell of ash grew sharper with every step as Zephyr and his party ascended higher into the mountains. The air was thick with the scent, heavy and oppressive, and it made Zephyr’s chest tighten. He coughed harshly, his lungs protesting against the stench, and quickly wound his scarf tighter around his face, trying to block out the fumes. The air tasted of something burning, something once alive now turned to nothing but smoldering remains.

They had already passed two of the nearer springs, both of them bubbling with the same thick, grey water that had shocked Zephyr when he first laid eyes on it. The foul liquid was thick with soot, and Zephyr could almost feel the weight of the pollution in the air itself. He had ordered his guards to collect samples from both, watching warily as they did so. The soldiers, with their gloves securely fastened, handled the water with practiced indifference, but Zephyr could see their discomfort in the stiffness of their movements. They didn’t speak about it, but he knew they felt it too—the wrongness of it all.

The path ahead grew rougher, and Zephyr urged his horse forward. He patted her side soothingly as she whinnied uneasily, her hooves slipping slightly on the jagged rocks beneath her. She was well-trained, but even she seemed to sense that something was amiss. The horses were always sensitive to these things, and Zephyr couldn’t help but wonder if they were picking up on more than just the change in the landscape. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the very earth itself was watching them, as though the mountains themselves were waiting for them to make the wrong move.

As the last spring came into view around a sharp curve in the path, Zephyr raised his hand, signaling the others to halt. His gaze scanned the surroundings, noting the eerie stillness of the landscape. The usual sounds of wildlife were muted, and the air felt unnaturally quiet. It was as if nature itself was holding its breath.

“Allow me,” Zephyr said, swinging down from the saddle. He reached for his flask, his mind already racing with thoughts of what he would find.

One of the guards opened his mouth to protest, but Zephyr gave him a sharp look, and he immediately fell silent. Zephyr had already made up his mind. He would approach the spring himself.

Stepping carefully toward the spring, Zephyr felt the ground beneath him shift subtly, as though something stirred just below the surface. He reached into his pocket for the flask, the simple act of pulling it out feeling almost ceremonial, as if he were preparing for something far greater than just collecting water. When he reached the spring, the stench hit him in full force. It was overpowering, the air thick with the smell of ash and decay. He gagged, the scent invading his lungs, and had to fight the rising urge to step back.

The water was a sluggish, murky grey, not the crystal-clear stream he had hoped for, but a thick, viscous fluid that bubbled up from the earth like a poisoned wound. Zephyr's stomach churned as he leaned down over the spring, dipping his flask into the vile liquid. The instant the flask met the surface, something happened—something he could not explain.

A wave of darkness crashed into him, a wave so sudden and overwhelming that it stole the very air from his lungs. Zephyr gasped, his vision going dark in an instant. His hand instinctively tried to pull back, but something gripped him, something cold and strong, locking his wrist in a vice-like hold. He could hear the distant shouts of the guards behind him, but their voices sounded muffled, as though he were hearing them from far away. His body refused to move. His mind raced, but he couldn’t think clearly. He could only stare into the roiling grey liquid that churned before him.

Zephyr.

The voice pierced the silence of his mind, cold and sharp, ringing through his skull like a high-pitched bell. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a presence, a consciousness reaching out from beneath the earth. The voice was ancient, filled with the weight of something far older than any of them could comprehend.

At long last. Let me look upon you, Zephyr, you who have weakened the bars of my cage.

Zephyr felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his head as the voice reverberated inside his skull. The words felt like a curse, like something dark and ancient that had waited for centuries to be unleashed. He fought to stay conscious, to resist, but the pain only grew worse.

“I did not mean to,” he whispered, his throat tight with fear. “We did not know.”

You humans never do. The voice was tinged with amusement now, as if the presence found some sick pleasure in Zephyr’s helplessness. Farewell for now, Zephyr. I have marked your face. Mark mine.

Zephyr screamed, the sound ripped from his chest, as a rush of cold wind exploded around him. It was like a force of nature, an icy gale that swept through him, chilling him to the core. He could feel the darkness in the wind, the void that reached out to claim him. But just as quickly as it had come, the wind faded, leaving him gasping and trembling.

The grip on his wrist vanished, and Zephyr stumbled backward, his knees giving out beneath him. He fell into the arms of the guards, their strong hands catching him before he hit the ground. They pulled him to his feet, their faces pale with concern, but also confusion.

“Your Majesty!” one of them cried out, steadying him. “What happened? What did you see?”

Zephyr blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. His head was still spinning, his heart racing in his chest. He could hardly comprehend what had just happened. The voice, the cold grip, the wind—Abyss. It had to be. But how could it reach out to him like that?

“The voice,” Zephyr croaked, his throat raw. “Did none of you hear it?”

The guards exchanged worried glances, their eyes wide with unease. “We only heard you cry out, Your Majesty,” one of them said. “We tried to pull you back from the water, but you wouldn’t move. It was as if you were… trapped.”

Zephyr turned, his eyes drawn unwillingly to the spring. The water was still there, quiet now, but the thick grey liquid still swirled in unnatural patterns, the smell of ash rising into the air. His stomach turned, and he quickly looked away, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “We have the samples, and we’ve seen for ourselves that the springs are corrupted.” He paused, gathering his strength. “Let’s not linger here.”

They rode in silence, the weight of what had happened pressing down on Zephyr like a physical burden. He could feel the guards’ eyes on him, could hear their murmured conversations as they rode behind him. The story of his strange outburst would surely spread through the barracks, and Zephyr could only hope that it would be told with concern, not mockery. He needed to appear strong now more than ever.

But the memory of that voice, the way it had gripped him with its coldness, would not leave him. It had called him by name, and it had marked him. Abyss had reached out, and Zephyr had no doubt that the darkness was growing stronger.

By the time they returned to the castle gates, Zephyr felt as if the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders. He dismissed the guards, sending them off to their duties before heading toward his chambers. But as he crossed the courtyard, an attendant stopped him, holding out a letter. Zephyr took it, nodding his thanks before retreating to the relative safety of his room.

Inside, Bianca was waiting for him, her small body curled up at his feet before the fire. She gave a small yip of greeting, and Zephyr smiled faintly, grateful for the quiet comfort of her presence.

He turned his attention to the letter, noticing the elegant handwriting on the front. It was addressed to him—Zephyr, King of Eskarven, and below it, Husband. The sight of that word, so familiar, sent a jolt through his chest. He imagined Edric’s face as he wrote it, and for a moment, Zephyr let himself be lost in the thought of him, of the quiet moments they had shared.

Opening the envelope, Zephyr read the letter slowly, the weight of each word sinking in like a stone.

Zephyr,

You wrote to me of strange things happening in Eskarven. I write now to tell you of strange things happening in Rafria. Two days ago, a giant pit appeared in the middle of the southern road, just as a party of merchants was traveling along. They lost only a wagon, fortunately no lives, but since then, three more pits have opened along the same road. The crops in the eastern fields have all suffered some sort of disease and are spoiled, hanging rotten from the branches of their trees.

I dream of my kingdom destroyed, and every night I wake with a scream in my throat.

Is this the prophecy at work? Is this the battle we have been preparing for? If so, I do not know how to fight it. We have been at war all our lives, and yet even my chief strategist has no answers.

I will be with you shortly, and we will discuss these matters in person. I hope we can find answers, and some rest, together.

With love,

Edric

Zephyr read the letter again, his chest tightening with every line. There was no comfort to be drawn from the fact that Edric and his kingdom were also suffering. It only spoke to Abyss’s growing power, to the creeping darkness that seemed to be consuming everything in its path. He had known it was coming, but to see it spreading across their lands—it was more than he could bear.

With a sigh, Zephyr tossed the letter into the fire, watching as the flames devoured it, turning it to ash. There was no point in drafting a reply. Edric would be here in two days. They could discuss it all then.

Zephyr only hoped that when they met again, there would still be time to find the answers they so desperately needed.