Page 2 of The Curse Between Us

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. Hecomplied, 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.

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