Morning came slowly.
Not with warmth, but with a pale, colorless light that barely pierced the clouds above the ravine. The world looked drained—stone washed in gray, shadows clinging stubbornly to every crack and edge.
She woke first.
Her body ached in places she hadn't known could hurt. The mark on her wrist throbbed dully, no longer burning, but far from calm. When she shifted slightly, she felt it respond—tightening, warning.
He was still unconscious.
She sat up carefully, back against the cold rock, watching him breathe. Shallow, but steady. The chains lay slack around his arms, dull and quiet, as if asleep.
Guilt pressed against her chest again.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe.
Slow. Grounded. Controlled.
Minutes passed.
Then his fingers twitched.
Her attention snapped back immediately.
His eyes opened, unfocused at first, then sharpening as awareness returned. Pain flickered across his face before he masked it.
"You're awake," she said softly.
He exhaled. "Unfortunately."
She almost smiled—but stopped herself.
"How bad is it?" she asked.
He flexed his hand slowly. The chains responded, tightening just enough to remind him they were there.
"I've survived worse," he said. "But not often because of someone else's fear."
Her shoulders stiffened. "I said I was sorry."
"I know." His gaze shifted to her wrist. "That doesn't undo consequences."
Silence stretched between them.
Then he pushed himself upright with visible effort.
"We can't stay here," he said. "The hunters retreated, but they'll circle back once the curse stabilizes."
Her heart jumped—but she forced it down.
"Then teach me now," she said. "Before I make it worse."
He studied her closely.
Not just her face—but her breathing, her posture, the way she held herself as if constantly bracing for impact.
"Stand," he said.
She obeyed immediately.
"Close your eyes."
She hesitated for half a second—then did.
"Feel the chain," he instructed. "Not the pain. The presence."
At once, she became acutely aware of it. The subtle pull in her chest. The faint echo beneath her skin, like another heartbeat that wasn't hers.
"It's there," she whispered.
"Good," he said. "Now tell me what emotion is closest to the surface."
She swallowed. "Fear."
"Of what?"
She didn't answer right away.
"Of hurting you again," she admitted. "Of losing control. Of being… the reason something breaks."
The chains rattled softly.
"Open your eyes," he said.
She did.
His expression had changed—not softened, exactly, but sharpened with something like recognition.
"That," he said, "is why the curse reacted so violently."
Her brow furrowed. "Because I'm scared?"
"No," he replied. "Because you assign value."
She stared at him. "I don't understand."
"This curse doesn't punish fear," he said slowly. "It punishes attachment without balance."
Her breath caught.
"You're saying it hurts us because I care?"
"I'm saying," he corrected, "it reacts when emotion outweighs intention."
He stepped closer—careful, deliberate.
"When you panic, you try to run," he said. "When you feel guilty, you try to sacrifice yourself. Both are extremes."
The chain tightened slightly.
"Control isn't suppression," he continued. "It's alignment."
He stopped just in front of her.
"Now," he said quietly, "think of the moment yesterday when you grabbed my sleeve."
Her pulse spiked—but she held it.
"What did you feel?"
She searched herself.
"Focus," she said slowly. "Not fear. Not guilt. Just… don't fall."
The chains hummed faintly.
"No pain," he noted.
She looked up at him, stunned.
"That's alignment," he said. "You acted with intention, not emotion."
Her hands trembled slightly. "So I can't care too much?"
"No," he said. "You must care correctly."
That terrified her more than anything so far.
"Who created this curse?" she asked quietly.
The chains reacted instantly.
He stiffened.
"That," he said, voice cold, "is not a lesson for today."
She didn't push.
They gathered what little they could and resumed moving, this time with a different rhythm. Slower. More deliberate. When fear stirred, she acknowledged it—then redirected it. When guilt whispered, she anchored herself in purpose.
It was exhausting.
By midday, her head throbbed from the effort alone.
They reached a narrow plateau overlooking a valley scarred by ancient battles—burned trees, shattered stone, remnants of magic long decayed.
He stopped there.
"This is far enough," he said. "For today."
She sank onto the ground, muscles screaming.
"Is it always like this?" she asked. "Learning the curse, I mean."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Worse," he said. "Because eventually, it stops teaching… and starts demanding."
She looked up at him.
"What does it demand?"
His gaze drifted to the horizon, distant and heavy.
"Choice," he said. "And someone always pays for it."
The chains shifted softly in the fading light.
Watching.
Waiting.