The restored tablet lay between them on the mossy ground like a sleeping beast. Its runes had dimmed to a soft, steady lavender glow, no longer pulsing with urgency, but still alive. Alix Teardom knelt beside it, fingers hovering just above the surface, not quite touching. The wound across her stomach had already begun to knit itself closed, the bond feeding her Donstram's vitality in slow, stubborn pulses. Pain lingered, but it was distant now, secondary to the weight of what they had just done.
Donstram Donovan stood over her, sword still drawn, eyes scanning the treeline even though the hunters had retreated. His shoulder bled steadily, soaking through the torn fabric of his shirt, but he made no move to bind it. His gaze kept returning to her, to the way she breathed, to the faint rise and fall of her chest.
"You're bleeding," she said without looking up.
"So are you."
"Mine's healing."
"Mine will too." His voice was rough, scraped raw from shouting in battle. "Eventually."
She finally lifted her head. Met his eyes. The storm in them had calmed, but not disappeared. It had simply turned inward.
"The prophecy is fulfilled," she said quietly. "The curse… it's gone. I can feel it. The glass box is shattered."
He exhaled through his nose. "Then why do I still feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop?"
"Because it is."
She rose slowly, wincing, and stepped closer. The tablet's light bathed them both in soft violet. She reached for his injured shoulder. He let her touch him, let her press her palm over the wound. Warmth flowed between them, the bond working without conscious direction now. The bleeding slowed.
"We broke the personal curse," she continued. "The one that bound me to solitude and you to exile. But the betrayal that started it all… that wound runs deeper. It poisoned kingdoms. Families. Legacies. The tablet is proof. Someone, somewhere, is going to want it back. Or destroy it."
Donstram's jaw tightened. "The king."
"Not just him." She glanced at the willow, its branches swaying gently despite the lack of wind. "The prophecy spoke of blood of traitor and betrayed mingling willingly. We did that. But it also implied balance. Restoration. When the curse shattered, it didn't just free us. It woke things that were sleeping."
As if in answer, the ground trembled faintly. Not an earthquake. More like a sigh from something very old and very large.
Donstram sheathed his sword at last. "We can't stay here."
"I know." She wrapped the tablet carefully in the remains of her cloak, tying it across her back like a shield. "We need to go south. To the old capital. The royal archives. There are records there of the original pact. If we understand how the betrayal began, we can understand what's waking up now."
He studied her face. "You want to walk into the lion's den."
"I want answers." She stepped closer, until their breaths mingled. "And I want you beside me when we get them."
He reached up, brushed a strand of dark hair from her cheek. His thumb lingered on her jaw. "You're not going anywhere without me. Not anymore."
The kiss that followed was slow, almost reverent. No urgency. No desperation. Just the quiet certainty of two people who had chosen each other against every force in the world.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers.
"Then south," he said. "But first we need supplies. Horses. A real plan. We're not wandering into the capital like beggars."
She smiled faintly. "We never were beggars. We were ghosts. Now we're something else."
"Trouble," he muttered.
"The best kind."
They left the clearing together, the willow watching them go. Behind them, the tablet's light pulsed once, softly, like a heartbeat.
Far to the north, in the royal palace of Eldridge, King Eldric sat upon the throne that had once belonged to Donstram's father. A messenger knelt before him, breathless.
"The hunters have returned, Your Majesty. The witch and the fallen prince… they shattered the curse. The tablet is whole again."
The king's fingers tightened on the armrest. His eyes, cold and calculating, gleamed in the torchlight.
"Then the old prophecies were true," he said softly. "The seal is broken."
He rose.
"Summon the council. Raise the banners. We march south."
The messenger bowed and fled.
In the silence that followed, the king whispered to the empty hall:
"Let them come. The crown was never meant to be shared."
Unique insight settled over Alix as they walked through the fading afternoon light: Freedom was not the end of the story. It was the beginning of a much larger war. The curse had kept them small, contained. Now that it was gone, the world would try to crush them again.
But this time, they were not alone.
And they were no longer afraid.