The flames danced wildly across the stone floor, casting monstrous shapes against the crumbling walls. The cursed entity—dark and swirling like a living storm—let out another cry, this one more piercing than the last. It moved without form, coiling like a serpent, pressing toward Ariella with a hunger that chilled her to the bone.
Damian flung his hand out.
A blast of invisible force exploded from his palm, hitting the creature squarely. It shrieked and recoiled, folding in on itself.
Ariella's eyes widened. "You… you can use magic?"
Damian didn't look back. "Barely. The curse lets me fight it, but not control it. I've only ever used this in emergencies—when the seal starts to break."
She swallowed hard. "And this definitely counts as an emergency."
The cursed smoke writhed and began to form a shape—a twisted humanoid with no face, just gleaming sockets like empty wells. Its chest split open, revealing a gaping void that pulsed with dark energy.
Damian moved between her and it again.
But Ariella stepped beside him this time.
"I don't want to just watch," she whispered. "There's something in me… I feel it. Ever since the mirror shattered. Like a part of me woke up."
The creature surged toward them, and Damian threw up another shield of energy, but it cracked on impact.
He stumbled back, bleeding from his nose.
Ariella knelt beside him. "Damian!"
He gritted his teeth. "It's too strong. That mirror was a seal—it held the worst of it. Now that it's free…"
She stood again, heart hammering. "You said my mother was from the Whitewood line. If I inherited anything—magic, power, anything—how do I use it?"
"You don't need to force it," he said, voice ragged. "Magic like yours responds to emotion… to intention."
The cursed spirit lunged again.
Ariella raised her hands—not to block, but to reach.
She focused on one thing: protect Damian.
Her heart ached with it. Not just fear—but love, real and consuming. She didn't want to lose him. Not now. Not ever.
Light burst from her palms.
Blinding, silver-white light, cutting through the darkness like a blade. The cursed entity howled in agony, retreating. Its form buckled, crumbling into chunks of mist that scattered across the floor.
The chamber stilled.
Damian stared up at her, awe etched across his features.
"You… you have Lightblood," he murmured. "That power… only the purest line of Whitewood ever possessed it."
Ariella swayed. The magic had drained her, but the warmth still lingered in her chest.
"I didn't even know I had it," she said breathlessly.
"You are the key," he whispered. "Not just to unlocking the curse… but to ending it."
Ariella dropped beside him, exhausted but trembling with new clarity.
"So what happens now?"
He took her hand in his, fingers lacing with hers tightly.
"Now," he said quietly, "we stop running."
Behind them, the chamber groaned as another stone fell from the ceiling. The curse wasn't gone. Not yet. But it was wounded.
And for the first time…
So was fate.
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