Page 1 of The Curse Between Us

Chapter One

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 expressionbefore 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 inaround 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 makinghim 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.

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