Lysandra woke to the sound of her own name echoing in her mind.
She sat up sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting faint light across the ruins. The prince was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. The sword lay within reach, his hand resting lightly on the hilt.
But something was wrong.
The night was too quiet. The wind had died. Even the insects had gone silent.
Lysandra's cursed mark burned.
She turned her gaze toward the ruins, toward the crack in the stone where she had first heard the god's voice.
The whisper came again. Fainter this time.
Lysandra.
She clenched her jaw.
She could still feel it—the pulse beneath the ground, the thrumming of something waiting.
She should ignore it. She should pretend it wasn't there.
But she had never been good at pretending.
She rose to her feet, careful not to disturb the prince. The moment she stepped outside the fire's glow, the cold wrapped around her like an embrace.
The ruins stretched before her, silvered by moonlight. The shattered pillars cast long shadows across the stone, stretching like skeletal fingers toward the sky.
Her mark ached.
She followed the pull of it, each step bringing her closer to the forgotten god's prison. The air grew heavier, thick with old magic.
Then, she saw it.
The chains.
They were barely visible, woven from threads of dark energy, anchoring the crack in the stone. They pulsed faintly, shifting between existence and nothingness, ancient magic forcing something down.
Lysandra inhaled sharply. These weren't ordinary chains. They were made from words—from spells so old they no longer had a name.
She hesitated.
Help me.
The voice curled around her like smoke, softer than before.
Lysandra swallowed hard. The prince's warning rang in her head. Gods don't beg. Not unless they want something.
But what if this one needed something?
What if the truth was buried beneath centuries of silence?
She lifted a hand, reaching toward the chains. The cursed mark on her palm pulsed in response, sending a jolt of magic through her veins.
The chains reacted.
A low hum filled the air. The threads of darkness trembled, sensing her presence. Recognizing her.
Lysandra's breath caught.
She wasn't just cursed.
She was linked to it.
A deep shudder ran through the ground. The air thickened, pressing against her chest. The chains tightened, as if resisting her touch.
Then—
A hand yanked her backward.
She barely had time to gasp before she was spun around, staring into the prince's furious golden eyes.
"What do you think you're doing?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Lysandra opened her mouth to answer, but he wasn't finished.
"I told you to stay away." His grip on her wrist tightened, his expression unreadable. "Do you have any idea what you're—" He stopped. His gaze flickered down.
To her mark.
Lysandra's stomach twisted. The cursed symbol on her palm was glowing faintly, pulsing in time with the whispers in the air.
Recognition flashed in the prince's eyes—along with something dangerously close to fear.
Lysandra yanked her arm free. "You're not telling me everything."
He exhaled sharply. "You don't understand—"
"Then explain it!" she snapped. "Because I'm done being left in the dark!"
The prince hesitated.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"The curse isn't just a punishment," he said, voice quiet. "It's a contract."
Lysandra's breath caught.
"What?"
His golden eyes met hers, sharp as a blade. "The god isn't just imprisoned. It's bound to a bloodline." He hesitated. "My bloodline."
The realization slammed into her like a tidal wave.
Her mark. The whispers. The way the magic recognized her.
The curse had chosen her for a reason.
Because she was connected to the prince.
Because she was meant to break the chains.
Lysandra's fingers curled into fists. "Then why—"
"Because if you do, it won't stop with me," he said. "If you free it, you take my place."
Silence.
The wind howled between the ruins.
Lysandra stared at him, her pulse roaring in her ears.
The god didn't just want to be freed.
It wanted her.
And for the first time, she realized—
She might not have a choice.