Chapter 210

LUXURIA.

It felt like a dream.

No—not a dream. A fracture in reality. A soft, trembling pause in the fabric of the world where time stilled and all I could do was watch my curse being lifted.

Tervan lay on the altar with no iota of fight in him. He didn't even as much as struggle when my curse began to sip into him.

Kalaril was the one who also carried out my own extraction, speaking in the Old Tongue—the language of root and fire, of night and blood. His hands had moved over me and then over Tervan, forming sigils in the air that shimmered briefly before sinking like glowing brands into our skin.

"Luxuria of Ash Mountain," Kalaril intoned, standing before me with a staff carved from ashwood and bone. "Do you come freely?"

"I do," I had whispered.

"And you offer your curse to another?"

"Yes."

"Then let the exchange begin."

And then I felt the curse rising in me like a serpent uncoiling from bone and blood. Cold and ancient and furious. It didn't want to leave. It clawed at my ribs. Screamed in my veins. My back arched. My lips parted in an agonizing cry.

Beside me, I had felt Parthe's grip tighten. "I'm here," he murmured through clenched teeth.

And Tervan—

Tervan began to change.

I had noticed silent tears track down his temples, spilling through the grime on his face as the dark magic seeped into him. Was it tears of pain? Regret? Guilt? The slow, dawning horror of a man finally seeing the wreckage of his own choices?

I didn't know. And I would never know. Because the moment the curse left me and filled him, the man I once knew was gone.

His body jerked. Twitched. Then twisted in ways that no human body should. His eyes rolled back. Veins blackened beneath his skin like black smoke. And something inhuman began to take form in his bones.

What stared back at us from the altar was not Tervan. It was a husk—a vessel filled with the curse that had tormented my life and almost ruined me.

He twitched once again. His eyes—no longer human—rolled in opposite directions, white and sightless. His mouth gaped open, leaking something black and thick down the sides. The stench of burnt magic and rotting souls curled in the atmosphere.

"Chain him and throw him in the dungeon," Parthe said with his arm wrapped around my waist, keeping me from falling.

I was weak and dizzy. The extraction had taken a huge toll on me, and it was a miracle my pups were still fine. At one point during the ritual, when the curse fought to stay inside me, I had felt them flutter—then falter. Their little pulses deemed. I thought I'd lose them. But fate was on our side.

I watched the guards chain what was left of Tervan while he twitched and moaned in something less than pain but more than silence as they dragged him toward the dungeon.

I knew what the curse did when it was starved of blood. I had lived with that slow rot feeding on the edges of my sanity. Tervan's last days would be full of endless thirst, the ache for flesh, and the gnashing madness that came when the hunger was denied.

And the curse would eat through him inch by inch, cell by cell, until only madness remained. And then… nothing.

He was going to serve a painful punishment. He'd be secluded, left to bear the pains of this strangeness all alone until it kills him excruciatingly.

It almost broke my heart, but he deserved it. He deserved every bit of the horror that awaited him.

I would have been dead, my pups and my mate, too, would have been gone forever if he had succeeded with his evil plans.

"Take these. You'll need them," Kalaril walked up to us holding two blackened amulets in his outstretched hands—small, cold things engraved with runes older than memory. "You'll need them in the future."

I blinked, disoriented. "What are they for?

Standing before Kalaril felt like standing before something ancient. A deity carved in the flesh.

His gaze alone could bring the proud to their knees. His name instilled fear in the hearts of even the brave.

His tales, I was certain, would be told to generations unborn. Tales of a man whose name dark witches feared to speak aloud and whose path was marked with fire.

He was a man I had admired from afar, even without knowing what he looked like. And now, standing before him was a privilege.

"Your mate will explain better. They are made from Sibile's blood." His gruff voice, which always held no humor or warmth, replied.

Parthe accepted the amulets with a nod of deep respect. “Thank you, Kalaril.”

He only nodded and stepped out of the ritual chamber. And I knew I might never have the opportunity to set eyes on such a great man ever again. But I was thankful he played a vital role in making sure I had the life I always craved, with the man I can now finally call my own.

Everything spun. My heartbeat roared in my ears. My skin felt cold. Wet. Wrong.

"I've got you," Parthe murmured into my hair, grounding me with his warmth, his scent, and his presence. "I've got you, Luxuria."

I leaned into Parthe's chest, my lashes fluttering shut. His heartbeat thudded slow and steady beneath my cheek.

"You did it," he whispered. "It’s over.”

But in the dark corner of my soul, I knew better.

The curse may have left me—but the scars it carved were mine to keep.

And freedom, no matter how sweet, always tasted faintly of blood.