The blackthorn grove released them at dawn like a reluctant lover finally loosening its grip. The mist clung to their cloaks as Alix Teardom and Donstram Donovan stepped out of the twisted trees onto a cracked stone road that had not seen cart wheels in centuries. The air tasted different here—sharper, laced with old iron and forgotten spells. Ahead, the Ruined Citadel rose from the horizon like a broken crown, its towers leaning drunkenly against a sky bruised with clouds. Vines thicker than a man's arm strangled the walls, and faint purple light pulsed from cracks in the stone, as if the place still breathed.
Alix paused at the road's edge, hand resting on the hilt of a dagger she had scavenged from one of the fallen inquisitors. "The oracle lives in the heart of it. They say she speaks only truths no one wants to hear."
Donstram snorted, adjusting the strap of his sword across his chest. "Then she'll fit right in with us." His voice carried the rough edge of someone who had spent the night replaying the grove's manifestations in his mind. He had not mentioned the child-thing since, but Alix felt the echo of it through the bond—a quiet, gnawing guilt that matched her own.
They walked in silence for the first hour, the bond humming between them like a low note on a harp string. Every so often, their shoulders brushed as the path narrowed, and each contact sent a small jolt through Alix: his warmth, his steady pulse, the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to him. She told herself it was only the bond playing tricks. Nothing more.
But the bond did not lie.
By midday the Citadel loomed close enough to cast long shadows across their path. The gates—massive iron things etched with faded wards—hung open, one side torn from its hinges. Donstram drew his sword as they entered the outer courtyard. Rubble littered the ground, and the wind whistled through arrow slits like distant screams.
"Stay close," he muttered.
Alix raised an eyebrow. "Worried about me, Prince?"
"Worried about myself," he shot back. "If you die, I go with you. Remember?"
She almost smiled. Almost.
They moved deeper, through archways choked with ivy, past fountains long dry. The purple light grew stronger, pulsing in rhythm with their steps. Alix's skin prickled. The Citadel was alive with residual magic—old, hungry, and curious.
They reached the central keep at last. A spiral staircase wound upward into darkness, lit only by those strange violet glows embedded in the walls. Donstram went first, sword ready. Alix followed, shadows coiling at her fingertips.
Halfway up, the stairs ended abruptly at a wide chamber. In the center stood a woman—or what remained of one. She sat on a throne of twisted roots, her skin pale as moonstone, hair like silver threads. Her eyes were milky white, blind, yet she turned her head toward them the moment they entered.
"Donstram Donovan," she said, voice echoing from every corner. "Alix Teardom. The cursed and the fallen. The bond that should not be."
Donstram tensed. "You know us."
"I know everything that walks these halls." The oracle tilted her head. "You seek the tear of a forsaken lover, the essence of a shattered prophecy. You will not find them here. Not yet."
Alix stepped forward. "Then tell us where."
The oracle's lips curved in a smile that held no warmth. "The tear lies in the heart of one who has lost everything. The prophecy waits in the ruins of your own making. But first..." She raised a hand. The air thickened. "You must face what you deny."
The chamber shifted.
The floor rippled like water, and suddenly they were no longer in the Citadel. The walls dissolved into a moonlit ballroom, grand and decayed. Music—haunting, familiar—played from nowhere. Couples danced in shadows, their forms translucent.
Alix recognized the scene instantly. The Night of the Broken Pact. The night her coven betrayed Donstram's bloodline.
Donstram stiffened beside her. "This is not real."
"It is memory," the oracle's voice echoed. "Yours. Hers. Shared now."
Figures solidified. A young Donstram—no more than fifteen—stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching as his father, the king, laughed with a Blackthorn elder. Trust. Alliance. Then the elder's hand moved, quick as a snake. A dagger. Blood. Screams.
Donstram took a step forward, fists clenched. "Stop this."
Alix felt his pain through the bond like a blade in her own chest. She reached out, touching his arm. "It's not your fault."
He jerked away. "You don't know that."
But the scene shifted again. Now it was Alix's turn. A younger version of her, twelve years old, hiding in the coven library as inquisitors stormed the halls. Her mother's voice, calm even in death: "Run, Alix. The curse will protect you. It will keep you alone."
The girl in the vision screamed as her mother's body fell.
Alix's eyes burned. "Enough."
The oracle laughed softly. "You both carry ghosts. Until you share them, the bond will only tighten. The tear you seek... it is not a single drop. It is the moment one of you chooses to let go."
The vision faded. They stood once more in the chamber, breathing hard.
Donstram stared at the floor. "I blamed witches for everything. My father's death. My exile. I thought if I hated hard enough, it would stop hurting."
Alix swallowed. "I blamed royals for my mother's death. For the curse that made me untouchable. I thought solitude was safety."
The oracle rose slowly. "The tear is born when forgiveness is given. Not to the past, but to each other."
She extended a hand. A single, glowing tear hovered above her palm. "This is but a taste. The true one must come from within."
Donstram looked at Alix. For the first time, there was no anger in his eyes. Only raw, unguarded truth.
Alix felt the bond shift—warmer, deeper. She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint scar on his jaw, the storm in his gaze.
"I don't forgive you yet," she whispered. "But I want to."
He exhaled, a sound almost like relief. "Same."
The oracle nodded. "Then the path opens."
She pressed the tear into Alix's hand. It dissolved into her skin, leaving a faint warmth. "The next piece awaits in the Shadowed Vale. But beware—the king knows of your bond. His hunters are coming."
The chamber returned to normal. The oracle sank back onto her throne, eyes closing.
Donstram sheathed his sword. "We keep moving."
Alix nodded. As they turned to leave, he paused. Reached out. His fingers brushed hers—not quite holding, but not pulling away either.
The bond sang.
Unique insight bloomed in Alix's mind as they descended the stairs: Forgiveness was not a single act. It was a slow unraveling, thread by thread, until the weight of the past no longer crushed you. And sometimes, the person you needed to forgive most was the one standing closest.
Outside, the mist had thickened. In the distance, horns sounded—royal horns.
The hunters had arrived.