The forest grew denser as Alistair trudged deeper into its heart, each step more uncertain than the last. The tall, twisted trees loomed like ancient guardians, their gnarled roots snaking through the underbrush and their branches intertwining high above, blocking out the sun. Shadows moved in the corners of his eyes, and the wind carried with it an eerie, whispering hum. It was unlike anything he had known in Eldenhart—this wild, untamed place felt like the heartbeat of the earth itself, raw and unyielding.
The air was thick with magic, but not the kind Alistair was accustomed to. In the royal court, magic was controlled, measured, bound by law and propriety. Here, in the wilds, it was free—dangerous, unpredictable. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a reminder of how small and fragile he truly was, cursed and weak.
His father's demand echoed in his mind: Find the rogue mage. Break the curse.
The curse. It was as if the weight of it had become a part of him, something that would never be shed, no matter how hard he fought. Alistair had never truly understood the curse's grip on him until recently—the way it drained him, hollowing him out from within. His energy was always fleeting, his body betraying him at the most inopportune moments. The prince could feel his own magic growing weaker by the day, his body struggling to keep pace with the demands of his royal duties. But even worse than the physical toll was the fear—the fear that soon, his mind would fail him too.
And that was the true curse. To die before ever having lived.
His boots sank slightly into the muddy ground as the trees parted, revealing a clearing ahead. There, nestled between thick vines and shrouded in mist, stood a small, weather-beaten cabin. Its stone walls were overgrown with moss, and the roof had patches where the thatch had rotted away. A faint plume of smoke curled from the chimney, betraying the life that lingered inside.
Alistair approached cautiously, but with the urgency of a man who had no more time to waste. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, though he knew it would be useless against the magic he had heard rumors of. A rogue mage was no mere mortal. If Kaelen was half of what the stories claimed, Alistair had to tread carefully.
He knocked three times, the sound sharp and unsettling in the quiet of the forest. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a figure in the dim light. Alistair froze.
The man standing before him was tall, lean, with dark, wild hair that fell in loose curls over his forehead. His eyes were sharp and piercing, a shade of green so dark it was almost black. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a jawline that was both sharp and hard, a man who had lived years on his own, who didn't answer to anyone. There was a quiet power in his presence that immediately unsettled Alistair.
The mage didn't speak at first. He simply stared, studying the prince in silence, as if weighing him, trying to discern whether Alistair was worth the trouble of his time. His lips curled into a faint smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"Well, well," Kaelen said, his voice rough, like it hadn't been used in days, maybe longer. "A prince. What brings you to my corner of the world, Your Highness?"
Alistair swallowed hard, trying to quell the storm of emotions rising inside him. This wasn't what he had expected—not the arrogance or the grandiosity of a royal wizard, but a rogue, a man who had left all the rules behind. And there was something else, something in Kaelen's gaze that made Alistair uneasy. The mage didn't care about his title. To Kaelen, Alistair was just another man asking for help.
"I... I need your help," Alistair said, his voice cracking slightly. He stepped forward, his desperation pushing him past any lingering caution. "I am Prince Alistair of Eldenhart. I've been cursed—"
The mage's lips twitched at the words, as though he had already heard this tale too many times. "A curse, huh?" Kaelen interrupted, his voice low and skeptical. "How original. You and every other poor soul who comes crawling into my forest, begging for mercy."
"I don't have time for games," Alistair replied, frustration rising. His heart hammered against his ribcage. He had come too far, sacrificed too much to be met with mockery. "Please," he said, his voice softer now, barely above a whisper. "I'm dying. This curse—it's draining me. My body, my mind… I don't know how much longer I have."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow, but there was something about the way he looked at Alistair now—something almost like curiosity. He stepped aside, allowing the prince to pass, but his eyes never left him, never softened.
"You don't look like you're dying," Kaelen muttered, his voice rough as he watched Alistair walk into the cabin. "Though I suppose it's hard to tell when someone is just... fading away."
Alistair clenched his jaw, but didn't retort. He entered the cabin, the musty air hitting him immediately. It smelled of damp earth, herbs, and something sharp, like metal or burning incense. The room was small, cluttered with shelves and cabinets, some of them overflowing with jars, vials, and odd-looking trinkets. The floor was covered in uneven stone tiles, worn down by years of use. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, and in the far corner, a bed of furs lay heaped carelessly.
Alistair couldn't help but notice how strange this place felt—there was no luxury, no sign of royalty or wealth, only the stark, simple tools of someone who lived with the land. It felt... real. In a way, it was the first time he'd been in a place that didn't demand something from him.
Kaelen stood by the fire, leaning against the stone wall. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes followed Alistair's every movement. "I've heard stories about you, Prince Alistair," he said, his voice quieter now, as if he were allowing the weight of those words to settle between them. "A royal curse... that's a rare one. But you must have known this wasn't going to be easy, right?"
Alistair nodded, though the weight of it pressed down on him like a mountain. "I know. But my father... he—"
"Your father's king. And kings care more about power than people," Kaelen said, his tone cutting. "I'm not here to save you. If you want my help, you'll have to earn it."
Alistair bristled at the implication, but he held his tongue. His gaze flickered to Kaelen, to the rogue mage who had no love for the crown. "What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice steady but laced with a quiet desperation.
Kaelen studied him, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "It's not about what I want," he said, his voice taking on a darker edge. "It's about what you're willing to give up. Because to break a curse like yours, it's going to cost you more than you think. More than you're probably ready for."
Alistair's heart skipped a beat. He had already given up so much, but something told him that this was just the beginning.
The rogue mage stepped forward, his eyes locked on Alistair's. "Are you sure you're ready for that price?"
The prince didn't answer right away. But in his heart, he knew the truth: he had no choice. He was already too far gone, too deep into the curse to turn back.
"Do what you must," Alistair said quietly, his voice tinged with resolve. "I'll pay whatever it costs."
Kaelen's gaze softened, just for a moment, before the walls came crashing down again. "We'll see," he murmured, turning away and moving toward his workbench, where ancient scrolls and runes lay scattered in chaos. "We'll see."