Elara's POV
How long do we have? My voice doesn't sound like mine—too cold, too hard.
Mira wipes her eyes. Twenty-six days until the blood moon. But Miri's already locked in the preparation rooms. They started three days ago.
Three days. My baby sister has been suffering for three days while I've been running.
Guilt crashes over me like a wave.
This is my fault, I whisper. If I hadn't escaped
This is Seraphine's fault, Kael interrupts firmly. She volunteered a ten-year-old child for murder. You escaped because you wanted to live. That's not a crime.
He's right, Mira says fiercely. Seraphine did this. Not you. She's the monster.
I look at both of them through tears. Then we kill the monster.
Mira's eyes widen. Elara
She tried to murder me for inheritance. Now she's doing the same to Miri. Rage burns through my grief, hardening into something sharp and purposeful. If we're going back anyway—if we're raiding the temple to save my sister—then Seraphine doesn't walk away alive.
Kael studies me with those dark, knowing eyes. You've changed.
I killed a man today. Something inside me broke. I touch my chest where my heart pounds with fury. Or maybe it didn't break. Maybe it just woke up.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Mira nods slowly. The resistance will help. But we need more than thirty people to storm the temple. We need strategy. Information. Weapons.
And we need to break Kael's curse, I add, looking at the marks spreading across his chest. Or he transforms into a monster before we can save anyone.
There's someone who can help with that, Mira says quietly. The executioner before Kael. He survived his hundredth kill—barely. He knows things about the curse. About the temple's secrets.
Kael goes rigid. Dante? Dante's alive?
You know him? I ask.
He trained me. Kael's voice is hollow. When Valdris first forced me to become executioner, Dante taught me how to use the blade. How to make the kills quick. Merciful. He laughs bitterly. As merciful as murder can be.
What happened to him?
His hundredth sacrifice was fifteen years ago. A girl no older than Miri. Kael's hands clench into fists. He couldn't do it. Refused. The curse took him, transformed him into a Shade. But somehow, he fought it off. Partially. Last I heard, he was exiled to the Barrens, half-monster, surviving on pure rage.
He's still in the Barrens, Mira confirms. The resistance found him two years ago. He's... damaged. Scarred. But sane enough to help.
Where? Kael demands.
Three days' travel west. There's a settlement—people the temple exiled. Criminals, heretics, escaped servants. Dante leads them. Mira pulls a folded map from her cloak. He's been gathering evidence against the temple for years. Waiting for the right moment to strike.
I take the map, studying the route. Three days west means three days closer to Theron's patrols. Three days while Kael's curse spreads. Three days while Miri suffers in those horrible preparation rooms.
But if Dante knows how to break the curse—how to fight the temple—it's worth the risk.
We leave at dawn, I decide. Get a few hours' sleep first.
Kael opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off with a look.
You're bleeding through your bandages. You can barely stand. We run ourselves to death or we rest and survive. I soften my voice. Please. A few hours won't matter.
He stares at me for a long moment, then nods. A few hours.
Mira falls asleep quickly, exhausted from days of searching. Kael tries to keep watch, but blood loss and pain eventually drag him under.
I can't sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see two things: the guard dying on my blade, and Miri crying on the altar.
I killed to survive. Now I have to kill to save.
When did I become someone who thinks like this?
You're not sleeping. Kael's voice is rough, barely awake.
Neither are you.
Hard to sleep when you're dying. He shifts carefully, wincing. What are you thinking about?
How much I've changed in four days. I pull my knees to my chest. Four days ago, I was a merchant's daughter who believed in divine sacrifice and holy duty. Now I'm a fugitive who's killed a man and is planning to raid a temple.
Regret it?
I consider the question honestly. No. I regret that it was necessary. But I don't regret surviving.
Good. His hand finds mine in the darkness. Survival is the only thing that matters right now.
Is it? I turn to look at him. Or does revenge matter too?
His fingers tighten on mine. What do you mean?
Valdris forced you to become a killer. Destroyed your mother's life. Murdered ninety-nine innocent women to fuel his blood magic. My voice hardens. If we're going after the temple anyway—shouldn't he pay for that?
Kael is quiet for a long moment. I've dreamed of killing my father for twelve years.
Then let's make it real.
It's not that simple, Elara. He's the High Priest. Protected by a hundred guards, surrounded by blood magic, practically untouchable.
So was I. I squeeze his hand. Four days ago, I was chained to an altar, waiting to die. Tonight, I'm planning a revolution. Nothing's impossible if you're angry enough.
He laughs softly. When did you become so fierce?
When they tried to murder me. When they came for my sister. When they turned you into their weapon. I shift closer, our shoulders touching. I was raised to be obedient. Quiet. Perfect. But perfect girls don't survive in this world. They just die prettily.
You're not dying, Kael says firmly. I won't let you.
And you're not transforming into a monster. I won't let you.
We sit in silence, hands clasped, making impossible promises to each other.
Finally, Kael speaks again. If we do this—if we actually storm the temple, save Miri, break the curse, expose Valdris—we'll probably die.
Probably, I agree.
And you're okay with that?
I think about Miri, locked in those horrible rooms. About Kael's mother, enslaved and broken. About ninety-nine murdered women whose names are carved in tunnel walls.
About the hundreds more who'll die if we do nothing.
I'm not okay with hiding while children are murdered, I say quietly. If I die stopping it—at least I die for something real.
Kael turns to face me fully. Even in the darkness, I see emotion burning in his eyes.
You're remarkable, he whispers.
I'm terrified.
That's what makes you remarkable. You're terrified and you're doing it anyway.
He raises our clasped hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles gently. The gesture is so tender it makes my chest ache.
When this is over, he says softly, if we somehow survive
When we survive, I correct.
A ghost of a smile. When we survive. I want to take you somewhere beautiful. Somewhere far from temples and deserts and death. Just... peace.
I'd like that.
Yeah?
Yeah. I rest my head on his shoulder, exhaustion finally catching up. Somewhere with water and trees and nobody trying to kill us.
That's a low bar.
After this week, low bars sound perfect.
He wraps his good arm around me, pulling me close. I feel his heartbeat against my ear—steady, alive, real.
Sleep, he murmurs. I'll keep watch.
You need rest too
I'll rest when you're safe. His lips brush my hair. That's the deal.
I want to argue, but his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing are too comforting. My eyes drift closed.
For the first time since the altar, I feel almost safe.
I wake to Kael shaking me urgently.
Elara. Wake up.
Dawn light filters through the cave entrance. Mira is already awake, eyes wide with fear.
What— I start.
Then I see.
The curse marks have spread.
They cover Kael's entire chest now, crawling up his neck toward his jaw, spreading down his arms in twisted black patterns. Pulsing with dark energy.
He's shaking. Sweating. His eyes flash between normal brown and something darker.
How long? I whisper, horror flooding through me.
Less than two weeks now. Maybe ten days. His voice is strained, fighting for control. The curse is accelerating faster than I thought.
Then we move now. I stand quickly. Dante's our only chance. If he knows how to break it
Kael suddenly doubles over, gasping. The curse marks flare brighter.
When he looks up, his eyes are completely black.
And he's smiling.
Not Kael's smile. Something else. Something wrong.
Kael? I step back, fear spiking through me.
So hungry, he whispers in a voice that's not quite his. So hungry for blood. For death. For
He lunges at me.