The road rose into the mountains, winding through slopes dusted in white. Snow clung to the jagged peaks like ghosts of forgotten winters, and the air grew thin with each step. Silence settled over the world—heavy, cold, and watchful.
Nestled in a frostbitten valley below was a village barely clinging to life.
Smoke curled weakly from crooked chimneys. Starved faces peeked from shuttered windows. The kind of place forgotten by kings and mercy alike.
Caelen felt their pain before he saw them. It rolled off the village like heat from a dying fire—thin, constant, and desperate. Hunger. Illness. Grief.
His curse drank it in.
An elder with hollow cheeks greeted them at the outskirts, leading them to a pitiful fire ringed with hollow-eyed survivors. Children too quiet. Mothers too still.
"Our harvests failed," the elder explained. "Three winters now. The snow comes earlier each year. We have little... but what's ours, you may share."
His words were kind, but his voice trembled. Caelen could feel it—the burden, the quiet panic beneath his calm.
He sat beside the fire, listening to their stories. One by one, the villagers spoke. Of barren fields, of wolves too bold, of loved ones buried beneath the snow.
Each word settled in Caelen's chest like lead.
"I can help," he said quietly, standing. "Let me take their pain."
Elira shot to her feet. Her hand caught his wrist.
"No," she said sharply. "You're already stretched too thin. You haven't recovered from the city. This will break you."
"I have to," he said, gently pulling free. "They're breaking too. I feel it."
She didn't argue further—but her eyes didn't leave him.
Caelen moved from villager to villager, touching hands, meeting eyes. The curse flowed through him, pulling in their suffering. Cold. Weakness. Loss. He carried it into himself, weaving it into the tapestry of pain already coiled around his soul.
His knees weakened. His breath grew shallow.
Still, he didn't stop.
At last, he reached a mother cradling a fevered child. The child's skin was pale, her breath barely stirring the air.
The mother's sorrow was thick—dense as ice.
Caelen knelt and pressed a hand to the child's brow.
He let her pain flood into him.
The child stirred, eyes fluttering open. A faint smile ghosted across her lips.
Then Caelen collapsed.
Darkness rose like a tide, and it swallowed him whole.
He awoke to the sound of crackling fire and the taste of iron in his mouth. His limbs were lead. Every breath burned.
Elira's face hovered above his—tear-streaked, pale with fear.
"You idiot," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You can't keep doing this."
He tried to speak, but his throat was dry.
She grabbed his hand—tight, shaking."You'll kill yourself trying to save everyone. And I... I can't lose you. Not you."
Caelen reached up, fingers brushing a tear from her cheek. Her skin was cold, but her eyes still burned.
"I'll try," he murmured. "For you."
She didn't answer, but she didn't let go.
And for now, that was enough.