Lysandra's breath was unsteady as she followed the prince back toward their small fire, but her mind was anything but calm.
The god who cursed my family.
His words wouldn't leave her head.
She had expected many things when she entered these ruins—ghosts of the past, old magic, remnants of a kingdom long forgotten.
But not this.
Not a living god.
Not the god responsible for the curse entangling them both.
And now, it was whispering to her.
She clenched her fists, trying to ignore the burning in her palm. The mark had never felt so alive before. It throbbed in time with something deeper than the earth itself, something ancient and watching.
She risked a glance at the prince beside her.
He hadn't spoken since they left the crack in the stone. His face was unreadable, his movements stiff with tension.
But his grip on his sword had tightened.
When they reached the fire, Lysandra sat down heavily, exhaling.
The warmth did nothing to drive away the chill in her bones.
She could still hear it. The whisper curled at the edges of her mind, faint but present.
She wanted to ask. To demand answers.
But the prince beat her to it.
"What did it say to you?" His voice was quieter than before, but no less intense.
Lysandra hesitated. She thought about lying. But the way he was watching her—like he already knew—made her sigh instead.
"It asked for help," she admitted.
The prince's jaw clenched. His golden eyes darkened.
Of course, he wouldn't believe it.
But then, instead of calling her a fool, he said, "And do you think it's telling the truth?"
She looked at him sharply. He wasn't mocking her. He was genuinely asking.
Lysandra swallowed. "I… don't know."
The god's voice hadn't been cruel. There was no threat, no command. Just… a quiet, desperate whisper.
And that terrified her even more.
Because it meant there was a chance. A chance that the prince's ancestors had been wrong.
A chance that everything she thought she knew about this curse was wrong.
The prince exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "Don't listen to it," he said after a moment. "Gods don't beg, Lysandra. Not unless they want something."
She frowned. "If it wanted to kill me, wouldn't it have tried already?"
His gaze flickered to the cursed mark on her hand. "Maybe it already has."
She tensed.
A cold wind swept through the ruins, making the fire flicker. Shadows stretched along the stone, twisting in strange, unnatural shapes.
Lysandra shivered.
Then, the prince spoke again.
"I'm going to tell you a story," he said, his voice measured, careful. "The truth about this place."
Lysandra's heartbeat quickened.
And as the prince began to speak, the ruins seemed to listen.
Once, there was a kingdom that angered a god.
The prince's voice was quiet but firm, each word laced with the weight of history.
"It was long before my family ruled. Before the world even remembered this place. The people here—mages, scholars, warriors—were powerful. They built a city that rivaled the heavens, a place of magic and wisdom."
His eyes flickered to the ruins around them. "This was it. What's left of it."
Lysandra swallowed, glancing at the towering, skeletal remains of the kingdom. The blackened stone. The air heavy with memory.
"But they weren't satisfied with their power," the prince continued. "They wanted more. They wanted to make a god kneel."
Lysandra's breath caught.
He went on, his voice growing darker. "They didn't worship it. They didn't pray. They wanted to control it. To bind it."
A chill crept down Lysandra's spine.
"And so, they did," the prince said. "They found a way to steal a god's power, to seal it beneath their city, using its strength as their own. For a time, they thrived. But gods don't forgive."
The fire crackled between them, casting flickering light on his face.
"And one day," he finished, "it woke up."
Silence.
Lysandra felt her fingers tremble. "What happened?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
The prince's gaze was distant. "It destroyed them. All of them."
A lump formed in her throat. She looked around at the ruins with new eyes. Not just broken stone, not just the remains of a fallen kingdom.
A graveyard.
"The last survivors sealed it again," the prince said. "Trapped it beneath the earth, so it could never rise." His voice turned bitter. "But curses don't end. They just change shape."
Lysandra swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight of the mark on her hand.
She exhaled. "And now, it's calling me."
The prince didn't deny it.
Instead, he said, "That's why you need to stay away from it."
But Lysandra wasn't sure she could.
Because if the god had been telling the truth—if it had been trapped unjustly—
Then maybe this curse wasn't what she thought it was.
Maybe it was never about punishment.
Maybe it was about vengeance.
And maybe, just maybe—
She was standing on the wrong side of history.
That night, she dreamed of shadows.
Of golden eyes staring through the darkness.
And of a voice, soft as the wind, whispering one word.
"Lysandra."