Page 47 of Tethered In Blood

The silvery gleam in his eyes burned brighter. With calculated precision, he drove his sword into the ground. An alarming pulse rippled through the soil. The beast screamed, its limbs fracturing and splintering like dry wood. The air became suffocating under the weight of Oberon’s power.

The land trembled in his wake.

But it wasn’t enough. The roots pulsed, empowered by him, not diminished. Magic was the key: a force as ancient as the curse itself.

‘The herbalist must bleed.’

A sacrifice.

My throat tightened. Not just blood. It wanted an offering.

I fumbled through my satchel, fingers scrambling over dried herbs: hallowroot, duskthistle, veilthorn. My hand closed around my dagger.

Oberon’s head snapped in my direction. His expression darkened when he noticed the blade in my hand. “Dilthen Doe,” he warned.

There was no time.

The bandage around my palm unraveled. I held my breath as the dagger pressed into the wound, slicing it open once more. The blood welled, dark and glistening in the cursed light. With my other hand, I crushed the herbs, mixing them into a thick, magical paste rich in iron.

One opportunity. One possibility.

I surged forward, pressing my bloodied palm against the cursed bark.

The effect was immediate.

A scream split the air, not just sound but something more profound that scraped against my spine, clawed through my skull, and rattled the marrow of my bones. The trees groaned under its force, their branches shuddering as if the roots themselves were trying to recoil. Overhead, the skeletal remains tangled in the canopy clattered together, disturbed by the shift in magic. The ground trembled beneath me, pulsing with the intensity of the curse’s death throes.

The creature convulsed. Its grotesque form twisted, and limbs contorted as if unseen hands gripped it from within, wrenching it apart piece by piece. Shadows recoiled as the air split with unnatural cracks.

Oberon’s sword carved a silver arc, piercing the creature’s skull in one brutal, final stroke. The steel sank deep, and the surrounding sounds shattered into a deep hum.

A shockwave rippled outward, racing over the ground, splitting through the decay, and burning away the lingering corruption. The curse shattered with a violent pulse. The sheer force of its impact against my skin threatened to knock the breath from my lungs.

The beast emitted one last strangled cry before its limbs buckled. Bark and sinew fractured as its monstrous form collapsed inward. Cracks splintered through its body, leaving only crumbling bone and blackened ash.

A deafening silence followed. It was not the heavy, stifling kind that had settled when the curse loomed, but a genuine silence. The air changed, no longer laden with decay.

The burden had been lifted.

My pulse thrummed in my ears as I took a ragged breath. Every muscle in my body trembled, drained from the magic and the intensity of what we had just survived. But my eyes remained fixed on Oberon.

He stood in the clearing, his sword once again buried in the ground, his fingers clenched around the hilt. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. His other hand clutched the arm that the curse had attempted to claim. His knuckles were white, and his fingers trembled.

I took a nervous step toward him. “You…” My voice quivered. Swallowing hard against my tight throat, I searched his face and the shadows cast across his sharp features. “You knew this would work, didn’t you?”

A muscle in Oberon’s face twitched. He didn’t look at me or speak for a moment. In a voice quieter than I expected, he admitted, “No.” His hands disturbed me more than his answer, the way he couldn’t stop them from shaking.

And the fact he didn’t try to hide it.

15

Eden

WHENWERETURNEDtothe village, I headed to the knights’ quarters, ignoring the protest of my aching limbs and the bone-deep weariness clawing at my skull. Every part of me screamed for rest—my muscles burned, my fingers trembled from overuse, and a dull ache pulsed at the base of my spine. But I couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not when knights still needed to wake up, and fevers required watching.

I had long since learned to push through exhaustion. It was a lesson carved into me through nights spent curled on chilly tiles, shivering beneath threadbare blankets. Through the sting of untreated wounds, skin cracked and raw, left to mend on its own, and through the hollow ache of a body forced to endure what no one wanted to repair.

I learned because no one was ever there to heal me.

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