Four
Ezra Raine was dreaming again.
Not the kind of dreams that fade into the sheets when the sun rises.
These bled.
Fire rained from the sky. Thrones shattered. Sigils branded skin like shackles. The cursed mirror cracked, bleeding black smoke, and standing in the heart of the storm Lira Black.
Not the woman he’d kissed.
This version wore war like a crown.
Her mouth dripped red. Her eyes gleamed like a fallen god.
And behind her, Ezra’s own body knelt burning, broken, marked as the final sacrifice.
He woke with a sharp inhale, sweat sliding down his back despite the freezing cold of the warded room.
The mark on his forearm pulsed.
The curse was feeding again.
Ezra swung his legs off the bed and growled at the dark. “Not tonight.”
He needed space. Distance. Control.
And he needed to find out just what the hell Lira Black was hiding.
She was in the library.
Of course she was.
The most forbidden room in the tower second only to the mirror chamber and she’d made herself at home like she was born for secrets.
Books lay open on the stone table. Ancient scrolls, sigil maps, bloodline registries.
Ezra leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Do you ever sleep?”
Lira didn’t look up. “Do you?”
Touché.
He stepped in, boots echoing against the marble. “You found the bloodline archives.”
“I found a lot more than that,” she said. “Including the Raine family crest. It’s older than the records say. Modified. Hidden.”
Ezra’s jaw twitched.
She turned a page. “Your bloodline wasn’t just cursed. It was created.”
He stepped closer. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying your ancestors didn’t just stumble into power. They made a deal. And I think I know with who.”
Ezra sat across from her, leaning over the page.
At the center of the scroll was a crude sketch half-man, half-shadow, with burning red eyes and a blade held backward like a gift or a threat.
Below it, written in the old tongue:
He Who Brands Kings.
Ezra exhaled. “That’s not a demon.”
“No. It’s worse,” Lira whispered. “It’s a Curse Warden.”
His blood chilled. “They’re extinct.”
She arched a brow. “So are you, technically.”
Ezra studied the sketch. He’d seen it before in a dream, once, when his bones were breaking during his first blood-awakening. Back when the curse had clawed its way into his marrow.
“It gave your line power,” she said, “in exchange for heirs bound to serve it.”
Ezra met her gaze. “So it’s not just a curse. It’s a contract.”
“And someone signed it in blood.”
They sat in silence for a beat.
Then Ezra said, “Why are you really here, Black?”
Lira’s eyes flicked to his.
“To break it.”
He stared at her. “And if breaking it kills me?”
She didn’t blink. “Then we’ll see if you’re as indestructible as you act.”
Training resumed the next morning.
Ezra had upgraded the combat floor with sigil-resistant wards and dimensional reinforcements. Basically, it could take a small magical nuke before cracking.
He had a feeling Lira might be testing that.
She arrived in black tactical gear, her hair braided down her back, eyes sharp.
He tossed her a short-blade. “Today, we learn pain.”
She caught it without flinching. “You planning to cry?”
He smirked. “You first.”
Their blades collided with a crack of steel and heat.
Ezra pressed harder than before. He didn’t hold back not like he did last time. And Lira matched him, blow for blow, sweat slicking her skin, her moves faster, more dangerous.
He grabbed her wrist mid-strike, twisted, and shoved her into the mat.
Hard.
But she smiled. “Hit me like you mean it.”
He did.
This time, she flipped him mid-air, her blade grazing his shoulder.
They landed tangled, breathing heavy, sparks rising from the marks on their skin.
Ezra stared down at her, chest heaving.
“You’re getting reckless,” he said.
“I’m getting stronger.”
“No,” he growled. “You’re tempting the curse.”
She didn’t back down. “Maybe I want to see what it does.”
“You don’t. Trust me.”
He stood, pulling her up with him.
Lira brushed hair from her face. “What did it show you? That night?”
Ezra looked away.
She stepped closer. “What’s it holding over you?”
He said nothing.
So she said the one thing that made his entire body tense.
“You still hear your brother’s voice, don’t you?”
Ezra’s heart punched his ribs.
She knew.
He didn’t ask how. Maybe she’d read it in the cursed mirror. Maybe she’d guessed. But she saw too much and it burned.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned, grabbing a heavier blade from the weapons rack.
“If you want to survive,” he said, “you need to learn how to kill something that doesn’t bleed.”
That afternoon, Ezra took her into the catacombs beneath the tower.
The halls reeked of forgotten magic and war.
“Where are we going?” she asked, voice echoing in the dark.
“To meet something older than either of us,” he said.
He stopped at a stone arch etched in rust-colored sigils.
“Stay behind me,” he warned.
Then he pressed his palm to the center.
The door cracked open with a groan.
Inside was a chamber bathed in violet firelight. Chains hung from the ceiling. In the center floated a shard of glass blacker than midnight, whispering without sound.
Lira stepped closer, gaze locked.
“What is that?”
Ezra’s voice was low.
“The Heart of the Curse.”
The air vibrated around it. A pulse, like a second heartbeat.
“It’s a fragment from the original seal,” he said. “Pulled from the tomb of the Warden himself.”
Lira’s hand hovered near it.
“Don’t touch it,” he said sharply.
She stopped. “Why bring me here?”
“Because it reacts to your bloodline.”
She froze. “I’m not whatever you think.”
“We can’t be so sure, But you’re linked. The curse recognizes you.”
Ezra pulled a scroll from his coat, spreading it across the altar.
A symbol at the center glowed faintly two overlapping circles with a crown between them.
“The curse is choosing heirs again,” he said. “And it thinks we’re both part of the same line.”
Lira stepped back. “That’s not possible.”
Ezra’s eyes glinted. “Unless someone lied about your origin.”
Her pulse jumped. He could feel it from where he stood.
She turned. “I’m not part of your cursed bloodline.”
“Then why does the sigil appear on your skin when you’re angry?”
Lira didn’t answer.
She stormed out of the chamber, boots echoing like thunder.
Ezra stayed behind, watching the curse’s heart pulse in time with his own.
It was choosing.
And he was afraid he already knew who.
That night, Ezra stood on the balcony overlooking the city. Rain slicked the glass. Storms gathered on the horizon.
He heard her before he saw her.
“You think I’m part of this,” Lira said, stepping beside him.
“I know you are.”
She looked out over the skyline. “I was raised by mercenaries. I never knew my parents. You’re telling me one of them was a cursed royal?”
Ezra nodded once. “Or worse one of them was a Warden’s heir.”
Lira exhaled. “Explains the rage.”
He smirked. “And the arrogance.”
They stood in silence for a beat.
Then she said, “If this thing’s choosing us, what happens next?”
Ezra didn’t look at her.
“It means one of us kills the other.”
She turned sharply. “What?”
“There can’t be two marked at once. Not forever. The curse bonds… and then consumes. One bearer always burns.”
She stared at him.
“Is that what happened to your brother?”
Ezra’s jaw locked. “He refused to kill me.”
“And you…?”
“I wasn’t strong enough to stop him from dying.”
Lira’s hand tightened on the railing.
“So the curse is a lover,” she muttered. “It seduces. Chooses. Then devours.”
Ezra looked at her. “Exactly.”
Their eyes locked.
The storm broke in the distance, lightning flashing over the ruins at the edge of the city.
Ezra stepped closer.
“What if we don’t play by its rules?” she whispered.
“Then we change the game.”
She leaned in. “And if that kills us both?”
Ezra’s breath touched her lips.
“Then we go down in flames.”