Kael stumbled through the threshold of the woods, his legs sore from battle, his breathing shallow and hot like iron in a forge. His skin still glowed faintly where the curse markings had seared themselves into him, whispering silent blasphemies in the ancient tongue—the same tongue that had been forgotten by man, gods, and death itself. The air around him was heavy with scentless ash. Wind did not blow here. Time did not pass naturally.
The Weeping Woods had always been forbidden.
But after invoking the Curse of Desolation—after watching the altar collapse and the Hollow Tongue scatter like cockroaches under light—he knew the path ahead had already been chosen for him. His destiny, like the cursed brands on his arm, could not be washed off. Only rewritten in blood.
He had not slept since the night of the altar. Could not. Every time he closed his eyes, the girl came back.
Nyra.
Eyes the color of a storm over saltwater. Hair like dusk spun into silk. And the look she gave him—equal parts sorrow and betrayal—before she died.
Her voice echoed still. You made me choose. So I did.
Kael shook the memory from his skull like broken glass and pressed forward.
The trees here were not trees. They were things pretending to be trees—twisted mockeries, their bark wet with sap that dripped in slow, deliberate rivulets. Leaves whispered in languages no longer spoken, and sometimes a shadow would dart between trunks too quickly for the eye to track. But Kael didn't flinch. Not anymore.
Behind him, Silren moved with the grace of a silent predator. Cloaked in black leathers, his curved blade never far from his hip, the mercenary had once served in the royal guard of Velenhara before becoming a sword-for-hire. Unlike Kael, he had no cursemarks—but his eyes told another story.
"You should rest," Silren muttered. "You're walking like a man being dragged by invisible chains."
Kael snorted without humor. "Aren't I?"
The forest thickened as they went, and the world dimmed further. It was not night, not entirely, and yet no sun or moon illuminated their way. Only the faint glow of the cursemarks on Kael's skin offered light. The sigils pulsed with each step, burning hotter the deeper they traveled.
"You know what they say about this place," Silren muttered, brushing aside a branch.
"I know they say a lot of things about cursed lands," Kael replied.
"They say the gods came here to cry after they made the first curse. That this forest grew from the tears of divine guilt."
Kael smiled faintly. "Poetic."
"No. Dangerous."
Something cracked in the distance—like a bone splitting in half—and both men froze. Silren's hand moved to his blade instantly. Kael turned his head slowly.
From the gloom ahead, a figure emerged.
It did not walk so much as unravel—its form stitched from bark, rot, and memory. Where its face should have been was a hollow void, leaking soft golden mist, as if something bright had died inside long ago.
Kael stepped forward. "What are you?"
The thing tilted its head, the way a curious child might.
"You," it said in a voice like falling timber, "are out of time."
Silren stepped between them, but the creature raised no threat. Instead, it bent its torso in a gesture that might once have been called a bow.
"I remember you. From the last Cycle. And the one before that. You wore different faces then. And your eyes were brighter."
Kael felt his mouth go dry. "You... remember the past lives?"
"I am the past lives," it whispered.
It extended one wooden limb and touched the ground. Roots exploded outward like spiderwebs, pulsing with memory. Visions swam in Kael's mind—cities falling in ash, oceans bleeding red, lovers dying by his hands, or in his name. He staggered.
The creature spoke gently.
"You are the Thirteenth Vessel. The only one who chose not to seal the curse—but to consume it."
"I don't remember that," Kael hissed through clenched teeth.
"You will. You always do. But only once it's too late."
The woods around them shook as the vision ended. Kael dropped to one knee, breathing hard. The brands on his arms pulsed violently.
"Why now?" he asked. "Why awaken again?"
The creature gave no answer—only raised one long, bark-covered arm and pointed toward the sky.
Kael followed its gaze.
There, above the canopy, where the moon should have been, something had taken its place.
A sun.
But not the one Kael knew.
This sun was black—pitch-dark at its core, bleeding inverted light across the sky. It did not shine. It devoured. Stars around it flickered, warped, then vanished entirely. The forest seemed to bow toward it in reverence or fear.
Silren whispered, "By the old gods... it's real."
Kael's skin began to blister beneath the cursemarks. A language not his own clawed at the back of his mind. And in his chest, where his heart should be, something stirred.
"The Black Sun," the creature said softly. "The Eye of the Final Curse. It does not rise—it awakens. Because you have remembered."
"But I don't—" Kael began.
"Not fully. But you will. The curse always ensures it."
Behind him, the forest writhed. Branches twisted into shapes that resembled memories—his memories. A woman's face. A burning city. A dagger through a throat. A kiss. A scream. A promise broken. And the words—
I will find you again in every life. And I will curse you in every one.
Kael collapsed to the forest floor.
And in the dark beneath the trees, his tears fell like starlight no longer welcome in the sky.
He woke later to whispers. Not voices—impressions. Like the dreams of the forest speaking directly into his bones. Faces formed in the bark around him. Some he recognized. Others were strangers wearing expressions of unspeakable sorrow. They blinked with hollow eyes, mouths moving in silent conversation, and then dissolved.
Silren stood nearby, unmoved. He had lit a small pyre of blue moss. The flames did not burn—they danced like echoes.
"We're close," Silren said. "To the Heartroot. That's where it's all buried."
Kael sat up, clutching his side. He could feel the heat of the curse—more than a fever. It was a presence now. It had grown within him like a parasite learning to sing.
He looked at his hands. They no longer felt like his. The curse had etched deeper—veins of blackened ink crawling up his forearms like vines.
"Tell me about the Heartroot," Kael said.
Silren turned, his eyes dim in the flame.
"They say it's what's left of the world before the first curse. The true center. A place where reality still remembers what it used to be. But even memory is dangerous now. If the Heartroot knows who you are... it may not let you go."
Kael stood. "Then we're going."
Far above, the Black Sun pulsed again. The sky shivered. And something vast—a shape larger than mountains—moved slowly behind the veil of clouds.
They did not speak again. They walked.
And behind them, the Hollow Tongue had begun to hunt.
Far away, in the drowned city of Veshtel, the girl on the throne opened her mouth for the first time in days.
And said Kael's name aloud.
The world trembled.
And so did the chains of fate that bound them all.