As Catherinne slowly began to tell her story, I guided her back into her chair. Without realizing it, the tension in her shoulders eased a little. I leaned against the edge of her desk. She needed to unburden herself. And I had no intention of taking that chance away from her.
"When I was a child…" she began. Her voice sounded as if it were walking a path that had not been used in years. "After I lost my family, I was sent to live with my aunt."
Her aunt was her mother's sister. She had children of her own. Two cousins, a few years older than Catherinne, she said. At first… she admitted she thought she was happy there.
"They didn't exclude me," she said. "They even… took me in."
There was a faint note of surprise in her voice, as if she had later realized this had been a mistake.
She grew close to her cousins. They slept in the same room. Sat at the same table. Played in the same garden. As Catherinne spoke, the corner of her lips lifted slightly, without her noticing. She smiled for a very brief moment. Then it vanished.
"When I was with them, I forgot about the curse," she said. "It felt like… like the witch's words couldn't hurt me."
One day they went hunting. Without her aunt's permission. A small act of defiance. An innocent escape. Once they entered the forest, Catherinne fell behind. She tripped. Fell. Screamed.
Her cousins turned back to help her.
"I don't remember what came after very clearly," she said. "There were only… sounds."
Something had awakened in the forest. Whether it was a creature or the curse itself, she said she never knew. All she knew was that she walked out of the forest alone that day.
Her cousins' bodies were found torn apart. There were signs of struggle. But Catherinne did not have a single scratch on her.
"People don't call that coincidence," she said. "They call it a sign."
Her aunt cried at first. Then she fell silent. After that, her gaze changed. Distance came first. Then words. Whispers. And finally, open accusations.
"You called it to them."
"The curse protected you."
"They died in your place."
Catherinne never lifted her eyes as she repeated those words.
"They started calling me 'cursed'," she said. "First the servants. Then the relatives. And finally… her."
One night, her bedroom door was locked. The windows were sealed. Food was left inside without a word. She was not allowed to speak to anyone. As if she carried a contagious disease.
"I was thirteen," she said. "And that was the day I understood. Being close… was dangerous."
Some time later, her aunt's husband died. Then her aunt herself. They said it was illness. But once again, people turned their eyes to Catherinne. This time not openly. Something worse. Silent acceptance.
By then, Catherinne was no longer crying.
"I ran," she said. "Without taking anything with me."
For years, she knocked on the doors of academies. Went to temples. Paid mages with the little money she could scrape together, all for nothing. Everyone could feel the curse, but no one could touch it. Some tried. Some paid the price.
During that time, her family's lands began to be divided among distant relatives. Catherinne watched it from afar. And then… she returned.
"I was sixteen," she said. "And I made my first real decision."
To keep her distance from people. To trust no one. To attach herself to no one.
With evidence. With documents. With academy references. By buying some people off, cornering others. One by one, she proved that everyone bearing her family's name had no legitimate claim to those lands.
"No one loved me," she said. "But no one dared stand against me either. I was able to become a powerful mage thanks to the talent I inherited from my family. And people were afraid my curse might spread to them."
That was how she took the title of Baroness. Through determination and persistence. By keeping people at arm's length. By being distant. Cold. And most importantly, by never stopping her pursuit of strength.
She lifted her head and looked at me directly for the first time.
"That's why," she said, "I can't form attachments. Because attachment feels like killing someone."
When her words ended, silence filled the room again. But this time it was not heavy. It was the silence of an exposed wound. It was no longer bleeding, but it had not healed either.
Over the years, Catherinne had turned pushing people away into a habit, not a defense.
And now, for the first time, that habit did not seem like it would work.
I stepped closer and gently rubbed her shoulder. "That must have been difficult… I'm sorry."
I did not remove my hand, but I did not apply pressure either. Not like someone trying to console her, but like someone making their presence known.
Catherinne flinched. Very slightly. Out of habit. Then she did not pull away.
"You don't need to be sorry," she said after a moment. Her voice was calmer than I expected. "It doesn't feel like a story meant to be pitied anymore."
She tilted her head slightly. Her eyes focused on empty space, but her gaze was not unfocused. She was thinking.
"Pain… loses its sharpness after a while. What remains is method. How to survive. How to become strong. How to stay alone."
My fingers came to a very small halt on her shoulder. Because there was no defense in that sentence. It was a conclusion internalized over years.
"People always looked at me the same way," she said. "With fear. With curiosity. Or with pity. All three were equally exhausting."
"Do you want me to take my hand away?" I asked calmly.
She shook her head slightly. "No… I'm just not used to this."
There was no invitation in that answer. But no rejection either. It was simply what it was.
I kept my hand on her shoulder. I did not move. Because sometimes it is not touch itself that is uncomfortable, but its persistence. And I did not want that.
I had to admit, I was affected. I had not expected a story like this, and to be honest, I felt a certain admiration for Catherinne. She had chosen her path and never abandoned it, and in the end, she had won. It reminded me of the villainesses I admired. There was real potential in her.
"What I felt while you were telling your story wasn't pity, Catherinne," I said. "It was admiration. That's why… let me help you."
I reached into the portal and took out the low-grade curse removal potion I had purchased earlier, then held it out to her.
Catherinne's gaze shifted from my face to the vial in my palm.
The bottle was small. Plain. Something that could sit among hundreds of others on potion shop shelves. Ordinary. Yet the liquid inside moved slowly in the dim light, almost as if it were alive. A pale, hazy blue.
"Trust me and drink this. It will remove your curse."
Her eyes remained fixed on the potion, but it was clear her mind was elsewhere. Her fingers gripped the edge of the chair more tightly. The muscles beneath her shoulder tensed. Her body, which had just relaxed, gathered itself again by old reflex.
"I've tried things like this before," she said at last. There was no accusation in her voice. Only exhaustion. "Academy masters. Temple priests. Even charlatans who called themselves 'curse specialists.'"
She looked up. Her eyes were clearer than they had ever been.
"They all said the same thing," she said. "The curse is too old. Too deeply rooted. Untouchable."
She looked back at the potion. Then at my hand. Then again at the potion.
"If this doesn't work either," she continued, "I won't lose anything. But…"
She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.
Hope was the most dangerous thing to lose.
I did not pull my hand back. Nor did I push the potion toward her. I simply held it there.
"The difference this time," I said calmly, "is that I'm not trying to sell you anything. I'm not trying to prove anything either. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, it will just be another failed attempt. But the decision is yours."
Catherinne closed her eyes. Only for a moment. As if she were trying to compress years of inner conflict into a single breath. Then she reached out.
Her fingers hesitated when they touched the bottle. She did not pull back. But she did not rush either.
"If… if something happens," she said quietly, "will you take responsibility?"
I nodded. "Of course."
She took the vial. Waited another moment. Then opened it.
The scent of the potion spread through the air. It was not sharp. Not metallic. More like earth after rain. Old and deep.
Catherinne raised the bottle to her lips and drank it in one motion.
For the first few seconds, nothing happened.
Then her breath caught.
She clutched her chest. Her eyes widened, as if something inside her had kicked open a door that had been locked for years. The room suddenly grew cold. Candle flames flickered.
Black smoke seeped from Catherinne's mouth.
But this was no ordinary smoke.
It thickened. Twisted. Emitted a silent vibration, like a scream. Then it took shape.
A small imp-like silhouette. Crooked horns. Long, sooty fingers. It had no face, but its presence was pure hatred. The thing that had taken root inside Catherinne for years was finally being forced out.
Catherinne did not scream. She only trembled. "What... What's this?"
"I don't know, but he doesn't seem very pleased that you drank the potion."
The smoky entity hovered in the air. It resisted for a moment. Then the magic carried by the potion began to burn it from within. The black silhouette fractured. Cracked. Dispersed in silence.
And vanished.
The room returned to normal.
Warmth flowed back. The candle flames steadied.
Catherinne remained where she was. Her eyes were still open, but unfocused. Then she inhaled. Deeply. Cleanly. The first truly easy breath she had taken in years.
"I…" she said, but her voice shook too much to continue.
She looked at her hands. Touched her chest. As if checking whether the invisible weight she had carried for so long was still there.
Then she lifted her head.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"It's gone," she whispered. Disbelief colored her voice. "It's really… gone."
A moment later, all that control collapsed.
She stood and took a step toward me. Then another. She did not hesitate. It was as if she released every chain she had held herself with all at once.
She embraced me.
Tightly. Trembling. Years of pent-up emotion spilled onto my shoulders. She cried. Not quietly. Without hiding herself.
My arms wrapped around her automatically. This time, I did not ask about boundaries. Because this was not a step taken to flee, but to hold on.
"I've never… hugged anyone like this," she said through her tears. "No one."
After a while, she lifted her head. Her eyes were red. But her face carried an expression she had not worn in years. Light. Almost young.
"You did this… You saved me."
"I didn't do much. I just gave you a potion. "
She did not reply, only smiled at my modest answer.
Then she rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to mine. The kiss was not hurried. Not possessive. It felt more like a confirmation. A touch meant to prove that it was real.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against my chest.
"That was my first kiss.… And it feels so good." She said softly, shyly.
Catherinne lifted her head.
Her watery blue eyes were clearer and more resolute than ever. There was no fear in them. No calculation. No weighing of risks. Only the simple clarity of being present, of wanting, and of not running away from it.
For a moment, we held each other's gaze.
This time, she did not look away.
Her hands came to my chest. Her fingers no longer trembled. Her body language was no longer cautious. She did not even remember the boundaries she had imposed on herself for years.
Her lips reached for mine again.
This kiss was nothing like the first.
It was not confirmation. Not a test. There was hunger in it. A need for closeness suppressed, delayed, forbidden for years. Her lips were more insistent now. Warmer. Her breath scattered against my mouth as she impatiently closed the last distance between us.
I met her halfway.
When my hands settled on her waist, she did not pull away. She did not retreat. On the contrary, she drew closer. Pressed her chest against mine. The kiss deepened. Not uncontrolled, but hungry. Accumulated. Like someone who had been silent for a long time, finally speaking.