Chapter 88 THE NEW PATH
Athalia sat quietly on a low stool, watching.
She watched as he examined injuries without flinching, pressing fingers into flesh and listening not just with his ears, but with something deeper. She watched how he chose herbs—not at random, but with deliberate care, sniffing, tasting, sometimes discarding entire bundles without explanation.
“Why not use that one?” a man asked once, pointing to a pale root Athalia had seen Oren gather earlier.
Oren glanced at it. “Because it lies.”
The man frowned. “Roots lie?”
“Everything lies,” Oren said, already turning away.
Athalia remembered that.
When the villagers left—healed or merely hopeful—she asked questions.
“What did you add to the salve?”
“Why burn that leaf instead of grinding it?”
“What words did you say when the child stopped shaking?”
Oren answered some. Others he ignored.
“You watch too closely,” he said one evening.
“I have nothing else to do,” she replied.
He snorted softly. “That is never true.”
Still, he did not stop her.
Her strength returned unevenly, but it returned. She helped where she could—sorting dried herbs, cleaning bowls stained black by old brews. Her hands trembled too much to be useful, but Oren said nothing. He simply waited.
One afternoon, while he was away gathering supplies, Athalia rearranged his shelves.
She grouped herbs by scent, then by texture. She separated what burned cleanly from what smoked thick and acrid. When Oren returned, he stopped short, eyes narrowing.
“You moved things.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They weren’t organized.”
He stared at her, then examined the shelves. He opened a jar, inhaled. Then another. Finally, he closed them carefully.
“Put them back,” he said.
She did, without protest.
That night, she dreamed of roots again—this time wrapping around her wrists, pulling her toward something warm and dangerous. A pot simmered before her, as if she were brewing a tonic. She woke with her pulse racing.
The next day, Oren handed her a bundle of dried leaves.
“Grind these.”
“For what?”
“For practice.”
She hid her surprise and took the mortar. The leaves resisted at first, then yielded.
“Too fine,” he said.
“You didn’t say how fine.”
“I didn’t need to.”
She tried again. This time, he nodded.
From then on, he gave her tasks—preparing teas, mixing salves, sorting roots by touch while blindfolded. Once or twice, she caught him watching her with something like caution.
“You are not a student,” he said one evening when she repeated an incantation she had overheard.
“I know,” she replied. “I was listening.”
After a while he whispered something she heard again.
But he covered her mouth with his hand—gentle, but firm before she could speak.
“Do not repeat words you do not understand.”
She pulled back, anger flashing. “You speak words without explaining them.”
“Because words are doors,” he said quietly. “And you do not open doors you are not ready to walk through.”
She did not argue.
But something had already shifted.
The hunger did not begin as ambition. It began as survival.Her body healed in fragments, never whole. Some mornings she woke strong, only to collapse hours later, drained by something unseen. No matter how carefully Oren worked, she never truly recovered.
One night, after a brutal relapse, Athalia lay shaking on the cot, teeth chattering violently. Oren pressed his palms to her temples, sweat beading on his brow as he whispered incantations that made the air hum.
When it passed, he staggered back.
“This is pointless,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” Athalia asked hoarsely.
He hesitated.
“What did you say?”
“You are under a curse.”
The words struck hard. She had known—but hearing them confirmed felt heavier.
“This is not court poison,” he continued. “Not a petty enchantment. It is layered. Old. Anchored to something that does not want to release you.”
“Can you break it?”
“No. I can only ease it. And every time I push, it pushes back harder.”
“Then why am I alive?”
He exhaled. “Because it wants you alive.”
Silence stretched.
“Why must I suffer so much?” she whispered. “I only wanted the best for myself and—” Her voice broke. “Where are you, Adrian? Do you even remember what I sacrificed for Arrandelle?”
Oren poured water and drank slowly.
“There are curses meant to kill,” he said, recalling his father’s words, “and curses meant to teach.”
“There must be another way,” Athalia said. “Or is my fate sealed?”
“There is something,” he admitted.
Her breath caught. “What?”
“Forbidden magic.”
The word thrilled her.
“What kind?”
“The kind that costs more than life.”
She swung her legs off the cot. “Then what else can it take?”
“Your will. Your future. Everyone you touch.”
She met his gaze. “Those were already taken.”
He studied her as if seeing her for the first time.
“You survived forbidden acts before,” he said. “And you think you will again.”
“Tell me who cursed you,” he pressed. “And why.”
“Nothing,” she said. “I did nothing.”
“Athalia.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just tell me where to find the solution.”
“No.”
She stepped closer. “Please.”
“There is hunger in your ey
es,” he said. “Hunger for ruin.”
“I only want the curse broken,” she said softly. “With or without you.”
The fire cracked between them.
For the first time since she had awakened in the hut, Oren looked afraid—not of her, but for her.
“You do not understand what you are asking,” he said. “I am ending this. I will teach you nothing more.”
Athalia’s voice did not waver. “Please, Oren.”
“I said no.”
She reached past him to the shelf and pulled down a jar he had never allowed her to touch. Its contents glowed faintly, pulsing like a living heartbeat.
Oren moved too late.
The jar was warm in her hands, and the hut shuddered.
Outside, the forest fell silent.
Oren seized her wrist. “Put it down.”
Athalia’s breath came fast, her pulse racing as the magic answered her touch. “Is this it?”
“No,” he said sharply.
“You lie.”
“I said let it go!” He shouted as a surge of power slammed her backward, throwing her onto the bed.
“This is a key,” he continued, voice strained, “and you are not permitted to touch it.”
But as Athalia struck the mattress, the jar cracked.
Light spilled out, coiling around her fingers like living smoke. Pain flared—not the familiar grinding ache, but something sharp and awakening.
She gasped as the jar shattered on the floor.
The magic sank into her.
Athalia screamed.
When the light faded, she collapsed, unconscious.
Oren fell to his knees beside her, his hands trembling for the first time in years.
“I warned you,” he whispered.
Desperate, he tried to draw the power out of her—but it resisted him.
Outside, far beyond the forest, something ancient stirred.
It was aware now.
The queen who should have remained hidden had begun to push back.
And this time, the curse was no longer sleeping—it was erupting but bigger.