Kaelen had killed a hundred witches. Burned dozens alive. But none haunted him like the girl in the cage.
She didn't scream. She didn't plead. She watched him—those ancient eyes set in a young face—as if she already knew him. As if she'd known him before he was born.
"You shouldn't be alive," he muttered, gripping the hilt of his sword.
The chains around her wrists hissed, glowing faintly red. Blood-forged. Only cursed ones were bound like that. And yet…
He remembered the prophecy: The girl with the blood of three shall bring the kingdom to its knees.
Was she the one?
That night, as rain lashed the tent walls, Kaelen paced. Duty warred with something darker. Something older.
She called to him—not with words, but with the same silence he'd carried his entire life.
He entered her tent before dawn.
"I know what you are," he said.
She looked up slowly. "Then you should be afraid."
His hand trembled as he drew his dagger—not to kill, but to press it to her skin. The cursed mark lit up, running down her collarbone in crimson script.
A pulse. Not just magic.
Desire.
He couldn't look away.