Stefan stopped a step beside Mikel's figure, his demeanor still distant and unaffected. He studied the scriptures burning on the kid's skin.
Mikel's body was smoking with a dark mist, but the scriptures weren't fading with it. Instead, they were sinking into his skin like they were being absorbed. The molten tar covering his arm and hand was also dissolving into him.
Stefan's brow twitched slightly as the black fluid thinned, revealing Mikel's withered hand. There was no muscle left—just brittle skin clinging to bone. It was the hand of a dead person.
"Cursed," he whispered, lifting his closed umbrella over Mikel's back. "All that effort to end up dead and cursed."
A shallow breath escaped him. He knew what he had to do. There were different types of curses, but not all of them could be undone. Some could only be stopped by something much simpler: death.
And this one? That was the only way to end Mikel's suffering.
