Chapter 60 Growing Curse

Chapter 60 Growing Curse
They fell into it easily. Conversation that wandered from topic to topic without purpose or goal. He asked about her childhood. She asked about his training as a king. He told her about his mother, who died when he was twelve and left a hole nothing ever filled. She told him about the first time she realized her magic was wrong, that she was wrong, and how it felt like the world had confirmed what she'd always suspected about herself.

"You're not wrong," Davorin said quietly. "You're different. There's a distinction."

"Tell that to my mother."

"I will if you want me to."
Thessaly believed he would. This king who'd burned down her kingdom would march up to her mother and defend her if she asked. The thought made her throat tight.

"What was the Void like?" she asked, because she needed to know and kept being too afraid to ask. "When it had control."
Davorin's jaw worked. "Like drowning. I could see everything happening, feel my body moving, but couldn't stop any of it. It was hungry all the time. That's what the Void is at its core. Just hunger that learned to think."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault."

"I blamed you for ten years."

"You were right to. I wore the face that did those things, even if I wasn't driving."

Thessaly thought about that. About blame and responsibility and how messy it all got when you looked close enough. "I don't blame you anymore. For what it's worth."

Davorin's throat bobbed. "It's worth a lot, actually."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. They'd gotten good at those, the quiet spaces where words weren't necessary.

"Tell me something embarrassing," Thessaly said eventually. "Something that'll make me feel better about all my awkward moments here."

"I once walked into a council meeting with my shirt on backwards."

"No you didn't."
"Couldn't figure out why everyone kept staring. Varian finally told me two hours in."

Thessaly started laughing, and Davorin's expression did something complicated. Like he was hearing a sound he'd forgotten existed.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing. Just... you should laugh more."

"You should make more jokes then."
"I'll work on it."

He did work on it. Over the next week, their midnight meetings became routine. Thessaly would show up at the library and Davorin would already be there, usually with tea and sometimes with food he'd stolen from the kitchens like he was seventeen again.

They talked about everything and nothing. She told him about the stories Isleen used to read her, about dreams she'd had before coming here of somehow mattering to someone. He told her about the weight of being king at twenty-three, about watching the curse kill people he cared about until he stopped letting himself care about anyone.

"But you care about your people," Thessaly said. "I've seen you with them."

"Caring from a distance is different. Safer for everyone involved."

"Is that what we're doing? Caring from a distance?"

Davorin looked at her, candlelight catching in his eyes. "I don't think we're very good at distance anymore."

He was right. They'd started sitting closer each night. Their knees would brush sometimes, or his hand would land near hers on the table and neither of them would move it.

The bond hummed between them constantly now. Not intrusive, just present. A reminder that they were connected in ways that went deeper than friendship.

Thessaly told him things she'd never told anyone. About the time she'd tried to run away from home at eight years old and made it three miles before getting lost. About how she used to practice introducing herself in the mirror, trying to find a version of her name that sounded important instead of broken.

Davorin listened like every word mattered. Asked questions that proved he was actually paying attention instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.

"You do that," Thessaly said one night.
"Do what?"
"Listen like you actually care about the answer."

"I do care about the answer."

"Most people don't. They're just being polite."

"I'm not most people."

"No," Thessaly agreed. "You're really not."

The way he looked at her then made her stomach flip. Not uncomfortable, just... aware. Of him. Of herself. Of the space between them that kept getting smaller.

She was in trouble. The terrifying, addictive kind where you know you're getting attached to someone and can't make yourself stop.

Two weeks after Isleen's failed assassination attempt, Thessaly walked into the library and stopped.

Davorin wasn't alone.

Ondine stood beside him, face grave, holding a message sealed with wax Thessaly didn't recognize.

"What's wrong?" Thessaly asked.

Ondine looked at Davorin, who nodded once.

"The Void," Ondine said. "It's getting stronger. We're running out of time."

Thessaly's blood went cold. "How long do we have?"

"Weeks. Maybe less." Ondine set the message down. "If you're going to complete the full bond, it has to be soon. Before the Void takes hold completely."

Davorin's face was carefully blank, but Thessaly felt his fear through their connection. Sharp and cold and absolute.
She crossed the room and took his hand without thinking about it.
"Then we do it," she said. "Whatever it takes."

Ondine's expression shifted to something almost like pity. "You should know what you're agreeing to first. The ritual requires complete vulnerability. Total trust. And if it fails..."

"If it fails?" Thessaly prompted.
"You'll both die.”