Caelen's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The lake's pain lingered, a cold weight in his chest, heavier than any he'd carried before. Torm and Lila were free, their souls at rest, but their grief was his now—stitched into the tapestry of his curse.
He sat by the cottage hearth, staring at the fire, while Elira paced, her own storm of emotions a constant hum in his veins.
"You look like you've seen the end of the world," she said, stopping to lean against the wall. Her copper hair caught the firelight, and her green eyes were sharp, searching. "What's wrong? Beyond the obvious."
He flexed his fingers, trying to steady them. "The lake… it wasn't just a spirit. It was a piece of something bigger. I felt it. Old pain, deep as the earth. And it's not done with us."
She frowned, crossing her arms. "You took their pain, Caelen. You saved them. That's more than most could do."
He shook his head, the words bitter. "Saved them? I just traded their cage for mine. That's not saving. That's surviving."
Her gaze softened, but before she could speak, a sharp pain lanced through Caelen's chest—not the curse, but something new, burning like a brand.
He gasped, clutching his tunic, and Elira was at his side in an instant.
"What is it? What's happening?"
He pulled his collar aside, and they both froze.
On his chest, just above his heart, was a scar—a jagged spiral, gray as ash, pulsing faintly like a dying ember. It hadn't been there an hour ago.
"Gods," he whispered, touching it. The skin was warm, alive in a way that made his stomach churn.
Elira's eyes widened, her voice low. "I've seen that mark. In the temple's scrolls. It's… a sign. The Ashbound. The one who carries the world's sorrow."
Caelen's heart sank. "Don't," he said, pulling his tunic closed. "No prophecies, no chosen ones. I'm just a man who feels too much."
But Elira's face was fierce, unyielding. "You don't get to choose what you are, Caelen. The world does that for you. And this—" She gestured to the scar. "This means you're tied to it. To him. The one who burned my home."
He wanted to argue, to shove the idea away, but the scar burned, and the lake's pain echoed her words.
Something was waking. Something that knew him. That had marked him.
He stood, needing air, and stepped outside. The night was cool, Hearthollow's cottages dark, but the stars felt too close—like eyes watching.
Elira followed, her presence a quiet strength.
"In Vaeloria," she said, "the Ashbound was a story. A figure who'd rise when the world broke, to bear its pain and mend it. I thought it was a myth. Until now."
Caelen laughed, sharp and hollow. "Mend it? I can barely stand, Elira. Every hurt I take, it stays. How am I supposed to fix a world when I'm falling apart?"
She stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. "Because you're still here. You're still kind. That's more than most can say."
He met her eyes, and for a moment, the weight eased—not gone, but shared.
Her pain was still there, a storm he couldn't outrun, but so was her fire. Her belief.
It scared him, how much he wanted to lean into it.
"If I'm the Ashbound," he said, "then we're all doomed."
Her lips curved, a ghost of a smile. "Maybe. But I'd rather be doomed with you than anyone else."
The scar pulsed—a reminder of the path ahead.
Caelen didn't want to be a hero.
Didn't want a prophecy.
But the world didn't care what he wanted.
And neither, it seemed, did Elira.