I didn't sleep.
Couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, she was there—Virelya—standing in places I didn't recognize, dressed in clothing that didn't belong to this era.
One dream, she wore silver armor, her hair braided and blood-streaked, standing at the edge of a battlefield.
Another, she danced alone in a palace of mirrors, each reflection showing a different version of herself—crying, laughing, burning.
And in the last…
She knelt before a throne made of bones, her fingers reaching out to someone just beyond the shadows.
Me.
When I jolted awake, I tasted copper.
Blood. I'd bitten my own tongue in my sleep.
By morning, the ache in my chest had grown claws. Every heartbeat felt like a silent scream.
I tried to ignore it. Pushed through breakfast. Faked a polite smile for the steward. Nodded absently when the noble guests made small talk.
But I couldn't stop feeling her.
Not just sensing her presence. Feeling her.
Her moods shifted like weather under my skin—sharp anxiety, muffled sorrow, a sudden spike of cold fury that wasn't mine. It was like my body had become an echo chamber for her emotions.
And then, just after noon, I felt it.
Pain.
Not mine.
Hers.
I followed the pull instinctively, like something inside me had already decided to move before my mind caught up.
It led me to the west tower. A wing of the estate no one used, cordoned off and supposedly under repairs.
I found her there, slumped against the cold stone, her hand clutched to her ribs, blood seeping through her dress.
"Virelya—!"
She looked up, pale and furious. "I said stay away."
"You're bleeding."
"It's a magical backlash. It'll pass."
"Backlash from what?"
She didn't answer.
I didn't wait for permission. I dropped beside her, pressing a cloth to her side. Her skin was like ice. Magic flickered around her—wild, unstable, like static after a storm.
"You're pushing yourself too hard."
"Don't you dare pity me."
"It's not pity," I said, sharper than I meant. "It's fury."
She blinked.
"At what?"
"At this world. At this story. At whatever's killing you slowly while everyone watches and calls you the villain."
Her breath caught.
The air between us shifted.
The curse reacted before either of us could stop it.
A sharp snap rippled through my chest, like a wire pulled tight then yanked suddenly. I gasped, clutching my ribs. Pain flooded me—hot, electric, intimate.
She reached out instinctively to stop me from collapsing.
Our hands touched.
And the pain doubled.
It wasn't just physical. It was emotional. Raw. Unfiltered.
I felt her memories—not visions, but sensations.
Shame. Rage. Loneliness so loud it echoed.
Then her heartbeat—frantic, heavy, erratic—and buried beneath it all: a flicker of something she'd never admit.
Fear of losing me.
She yanked her hand away like I'd burned her.
I staggered back, breath ragged.
"What was that?" I choked out.
Her face was pale. Too pale.
"The curse… it's syncing us faster than I thought."
"What does that mean?"
"It means our bond is no longer one-way," she said quietly. "You're not just feeling me. I'm starting to feel you."
I stared at her.
"And what do you feel?"
She looked away.
"That's the problem."
Later that evening, I found myself back in the library.
I didn't know what I was searching for anymore. A solution? A reversal? A spell to sever the bond?
But I couldn't stop thinking about what I felt through her.
That buried fear.
That buried care.
She didn't want this. She didn't ask for this curse. But she hadn't run either.
Maybe that was what made it worse.
We were both cursed to want something that could destroy us.
Each other.
As I sat there, thumbing through another forgotten tome, a shadow crept across the pages.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
I looked up—and saw it.
Not a person.
Not a spirit.
A silhouette made of pure absence. No features. No sound. Just hunger.
It stood between two bookcases, staring at me without eyes.
And then it spoke.
"She is ours."
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't echo. But it felt like it was inside my head, behind my eyes, under my skin.
I stood, hands shaking. "What are you?"
It tilted its head.
"She was meant to break alone. You are interfering."
"I'm not leaving her."
"You will."
It stepped forward—and the floor beneath it rotted.
Not burned.
Not cracked.
Withered, like time had skipped forward a thousand years just beneath its feet.
And then it was gone.
I collapsed back into the chair, heart racing, lungs screaming.
Whatever that thing was…
It wasn't part of the original story.
It was older.
And it was watching both of us.