Page 3 of The Curse Between Us

"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 owndeath: 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 alonesent 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 knewall 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, thoughthere 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.”

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