Page 54 of The Curse Between Us

“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 frombeneath 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.

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