Page 4 of The Curse Between Us

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.”

Chapter Two

Edric gazed down at his father’s ashen face, a cold lump forming in his throat as he realized how unprepared he truly was for this moment.

The royal family of Rafria had always understood the harsh truths of their existence. War was their constant companion, and the cycle of life and death among their rulers was as inevitable as the changing seasons. Edric had known, for as long as he could remember, that one day his father would succumb, and when that day came, Edric would ascend the throne, assuming he still had life within him.

But this—this was nothing like what he had imagined. Watching Caldwell’s face lose its color, hearing the labored breaths that came with each shallow inhalation, felt far more overwhelming than anything Edric had anticipated.

“Bring more wood,” Edric commanded, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar in the stillness of the room. The attendants, who had been silent observers, responded without hesitation, rushing to comply. “Raise the fire higher.”

One of them started to speak, but Edric’s icy gaze stopped them before they could utter a word.

“He’s too cold,” Edric muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand hovered over his father’s, then recoiled, stinging with the coldness he hadn’t expected. Caldwell’s skin was like ice—far colder than anything Edric had ever touched. The bluish tint creeping across his father’s lips and the frostforming in his silver hair were unmistakable signs that death was near. The fire, hastily built by hands unused to such tasks, seemed utterly inadequate in the face of the unrelenting chill that had taken hold of the king’s body.

Caldwell, King of Rafria, was slipping away, and Edric could do nothing to stop it.

How fitting, Edric thought bitterly, that his father’s stubbornness would drag out the inevitable. The king had always been a man of unyielding will, and he was holding on, resisting the power of Icelight, the legendary blade of Eskarven kings, far longer than anyone had expected. It was a blade that rarely spared its victims.

The attendants added more wood to the fire, its flames rising higher, but Edric barely noticed, his thoughts consumed with the cruel helplessness of the situation. The heat from the fire was suffocating, an oppressive contrast to the unnatural coldness of his father’s body. Rafria was a land of perpetual warmth, but even the sunlight and warm breezes could not reach them now. And the fire, though fueled by all the effort in the world, couldn’t provide the warmth Caldwell so desperately needed.

A throat cleared behind him, breaking the stillness. Edric turned wearily but didn’t lift his gaze from his father’s face. “What is it?”

“Your brother wishes to speak with you,” a soft voice replied.

Edric looked up at Eileen, her expression calm and understanding. She would not disturb him unless it was important. Alec, too, would never do so without grave cause.

“I’ll stay with him,” Eileen said, her voice gentle. “We’ll let you know if—”

The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. There was no hope. The only way his father’s condition could change now was for him to die.

Edric rose, his throat tight. “Thank you,” he murmured, his hand briefly touching her shoulder. “They’re in Herbert’s office?”

“As always.” A fleeting trace of humor, so rare in these dark moments, softened Eileen’s lips into a small, tight smile. Edric tried to return it, but the attempt felt hollow.

The corridors of the castle were cool, a welcome relief from the heat of the chamber he had just left behind. He moved swiftly, ignoring the sympathetic stares and hushed whispers that followed him as he passed. Alec’s message must be urgent—something of great importance, or he wouldn’t have called Edric away from their father at such a critical time. The battle with King Hadden weighed heavily on Edric’s mind, and he realized he had yet to discuss it with his brother. He had been stuck here, in the castle, while Alec and Caldwell had gone to the battlefield, fighting for their kingdom.

The rules had always been clear: only two members of the royal family could fight in any given battle. One had to remain behind, ensuring that their family wouldn’t be decimated in a single blow. For years, Edric and Alec had been the ones to fight, but today, Caldwell had insisted on leading the charge against King Hadden’s smaller force.

And now, it had cost him his life.

Edric’s jaw clenched as he reached Herbert’s office. The door stood ajar, and he pushed it open without hesitation. Inside, Herbert and Alec sat close to one another, bent over a pile of documents, but Edric’s gaze immediately shifted to the third person in the room.

The stranger stood before Edric, dressed in the simple garb of a Rafrian commoner, yet Edric could sense thedissonance immediately. There was something in the way he carried himself, the way his dark hair clung to his brow with sweat, that screamed of foreignness. His face—sharp and striking, with clean-cut lines of cheek and jaw—was a marked contrast to the softer, rounder features typical of Rafrians. Bright blue eyes locked onto Edric’s, and in an instant, his heart skipped a beat. He knew exactly who stood before him.

“Zephyr,” Edric breathed, the name slipping from his lips in astonishment.

Zephyr, the youngest son of the Eskarven royal family. Or perhaps, after the day’s battle, the only surviving son. Edric’s mind raced, trying to piece together the implications. It seemed Zephyr had been captured alive on the battlefield, dressed now in Rafrian clothing—likely to avoid recognition—and brought here, standing before Edric.

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