Chapter Ninety-Five – The Curse Meant for Another
The words struck like a blade.
Sever the bond.
Rowan’s breath left him in a ragged exhale, the walls of the room pressing in as those three words echoed in his skull.
“That arrow was meant to *sever the bond*?” he repeated, voice hoarse, disbelieving. “But—it was meant for Elia. Giselle shoved her out of the way.”
Avella paused in her preparation. Her sharp eyes flicked to him, narrowing.
“What did you say?”
“It was Elia the rogue aimed for,” Rowan said again, slower this time, confusion knotting tighter in his gut. “Giselle took the hit. That arrow wasn’t meant for her.”
The witch frowned. For the first time since arriving, a sliver of doubt cracked her impassive face. She turned fully back to the couch, where Giselle’s body lay limp and graying, the black veins now climbing the side of her neck.
“That changes things,” Avella muttered, almost to herself. “But not the intent of the curse.”
“What *curse*?” Rowan snapped, stepping forward.
Avella held up a hand without looking back. “Silence. If you want her to live, don’t speak again.”
His jaw clenched tight. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. His wolf paced in his mind, agitated, wild with helplessness. Giselle lay unmoving on the couch, her hair damp with sweat, her lips parted slightly. She looked… too still.
Too quiet.
Avella’s hands moved swiftly now, drawing a jagged line across the air with a small curved blade. She began to chant, the language foreign and unnatural. It was thick and heavy on the air, each word sinking like a stone in Rowan’s chest.
“Ka’theren solan na’shiel. Tor’ven athis va’ra.”
The temperature in the room dropped. The candles flickered violently, their flames dancing as if caught in a storm no one could see. The black veins on Giselle’s leg began to pulse slowly, almost rhythmically.
Rowan’s fists curled at his sides. His wolf howled inside him, demanding action, demanding he tear the curse apart with his bare hands. But he couldn’t. He could only watch.
Everyone else in the room was motionless. Liam. Luther. Kalen. Even the ever-curious Elia hadn’t moved an inch.
But her eyes—Rowan caught her watching.
Elia lay propped up against the far wall, bandaged and pale. Her brows were drawn tightly together as she stared at Avella with the look of someone trying to solve a puzzle they didn’t know they were part of. Her gaze darted between the witch’s lips and Giselle’s darkening skin, her fingers twitching in her lap like she was trying to recall something long forgotten.
Avella continued chanting, her voice rising now, faster, more urgent. Symbols began to glow faintly on the table around her, ones Rowan hadn’t seen her draw.
A sudden, invisible wind whipped through the room.
“Ka’tel va’shern… ka’tel va’shern—”
“Damn it,” Rowan growled, unable to contain himself. “What is happening to her?!”
Avella’s head snapped toward him, eyes glowing briefly silver.
“I *told* you to be quiet!”
He flinched, but didn’t back down. “You said the curse was to sever a bond—but that wasn’t her arrow. Why is she the one dying?”
Avella’s gaze narrowed, not with irritation—but with dawning comprehension.
“That is what I’m trying to understand,” she said, her tone clipped. “It wasn’t her arrow. And yet—it’s reacting to *her*. As if it knows her. As if it was cast with something... connected to her bloodline.”
Rowan’s heart hammered in his chest.
“Her *bloodline*?”
Avella didn’t respond. She turned back to the table, her hands beginning to rearrange the bone fragments and symbols as she shifted to a new incantation.
As she spoke again, her words cracked like thunder, rippling with power that made the very walls tremble. Rowan’s breath caught as Giselle’s body jerked once—then stilled again.
He didn’t notice the blood dripping from his fists until it hit the floor.
Elia was still staring, lips parted, as though she was just on the edge of realization.
And Rowan—he could only stand in the silence that followed, the weight of the unknown crashing down on him.
Whatever this was… it wasn’t just poison. And it wasn’t just meant for Elia.
Something deeper was at play. Something far more dangerous.
The silence that followed Avella’s chanting felt too still.
Too sharp.
Rowan’s heart pounded behind his ribs, each beat laced with helpless fury. Giselle hadn’t moved again. The blackened veins had slowed their spread, but her skin still looked far too pale. He didn’t know if that meant Avella’s spell was helping… or if they were simply running out of time.
He didn’t dare ask.
Avella was working too fast now, sweat beading at her brow, her hands moving with a speed and precision that spoke of fear even she wouldn’t voice. A scent of burning herbs and singed metal filled the air.
Rowan’s eyes flicked toward Elia—still watching, still silent.
Her brows were drawn, lips parted slightly. She looked less like the defiant traitor they’d found in the woods and more like a girl lost in a memory that had suddenly come screaming back to her.
“Elia,” Rowan said sharply, stepping toward her, his voice low and firm. “What is it? Say it.”
She blinked, her gaze snapping to him like she was waking up.
“I…” Her voice was hoarse. “I think I’ve seen that symbol before.”
Rowan followed her gaze to the glowing mark Avella had drawn on the floor — an angular shape with a curled tail and jagged slashes branching out from the center. It pulsed with soft golden light beneath Giselle’s couch, a magic Rowan didn’t understand.
“Where?” he demanded. “Where did you see it?”
Elia swallowed, shifting to sit upright despite the pain etched across her face. Liam moved as if to steady her, but she waved him off, her eyes never leaving Rowan.
“It was… in the compound,” she said quietly. “On the walls. Down where the ritual rooms were. One of the rogues—I think they called him the Bonecaster—he carved it into the stone.”
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