They call it a curse. But I like to think of it as a reminder-flowers don't bloom without suffering.
—
A cold wind slithered through the town of Blackmere, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain. The cobbled streets were quiet, save for the occasional murmur of merchants packing up their stalls.
At the far edge of the town, in a cramped and dimly lit apothecary, Kieran Ashthorne stood hunched over a worn wooden table, grinding dried herbs into fine powder. His fingers, wrapped in bandages, moved with practiced precision, despite the ache that lingered in his bones.
He could feel it again.
The curse.
A dull, pulsing warmth beneath his skin, like something inside him was waiting—eager—to break free. He ignored it, focusing on his task.
"Boy."
The gruff voice of Old Myrna, the apothecary's owner, snapped him from his thoughts. She sat in the corner, chewing on a sprig of rosemary, her sharp eyes never missing a detail.
"You're sweating."
Kieran wiped his forehead, smearing a bit of crushed lavender on his cheek. "It's just warm in here."
Myrna snorted. "Liar. You feel it again, don't you?"
He hesitated. There was no point in denying it.
"…Yes."
Myrna leaned forward, her expression hardening. "How bad?"
Kieran flexed his fingers. The bandages around his hands shifted slightly—not from movement, but from something beneath them. Something alive.
"…Not bad," he lied.
Myrna sighed. "That curse of yours is getting worse, boy. You keep using magic, and one day you're gonna wake up as a damned flower bed."
Kieran forced a smirk. "At least I'd be pretty."
She didn't laugh. Instead, she stood up and hobbled over, placing a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. "You need to leave Blackmere."
The smirk faded.
Myrna continued, her voice quieter now. "This town ain't safe for people like you. The Thorned Lords are sniffing around again."
Kieran stiffened. He had heard the rumors—mercenaries draped in blood-fed roses, hunting warlocks for reasons only whispered in the dark.
"They're not here for me," he said. "I haven't done anything."
Myrna's gaze softened, but her grip didn't. "Doesn't matter. You exist—and that's enough."
Before Kieran could respond, the bell above the shop's door jingled.
A customer.
But when Kieran turned, his breath caught in his throat.
Standing in the doorway was a girl—soaking wet from the rain, a tattered cloak clinging to her shoulders, and a desperate, wild look in her eyes.
Her hair was tangled with leaves, and in her trembling hands, she clutched something wrapped in cloth—something dripping with fresh blood.
She staggered forward before her legs gave out beneath her.
Kieran lunged, catching her just before she hit the ground.
Her eyes, a deep, piercing violet, met his for a fleeting moment. Then she rasped, her voice barely a whisper—
"They're coming."
And then she collapsed.