The day had been nothing short of perfect. The sun filtered gently through the canopy of Elderglen, dappling the clearing around Aelric’s cottage in patches of golden warmth. Birds sang, herbs dried on racks, and the air smelled of pine, mint, and memory.

Selyra Moonvale had arrived that morning without warning — as she often did — a familiar glint in her amethyst eyes, her deep violet cloak trailing behind her like liquid dusk. Her dark hair, long and soft as shadows, spilled over her shoulders, and her smile, however faint, had pulled Aelric’s heart into a place of peace he hadn’t felt in months.

They’d spent the day wandering the woods, laughing about old stories and gathering herbs. She’d helped him carry baskets, rinse roots, and mix tinctures. Every time he passed her a task where she once would’ve summoned a breeze or lifted tools with a flick of her fingers, she used her hands instead. At first, he thought nothing of it — perhaps she was grounding herself more, enjoying the simplicity of touch.

“Refreshing, isn’t it?” she had said when he raised an eyebrow. “To feel the world with your hands instead of just… commanding it.”

Aelric had smiled. “A rare sentiment coming from you.”

They made dinner together. No magic, only the scent of roasted vegetables and wild herbs, and the soft clink of pottery. The comfort of shared silence. But deep down, Aelric’s thoughts began to stir — a seed of unease taking root. Selyra’s hands trembled when she chopped garlic. Her smile faltered once when she thought he wasn’t looking. And more than once, he caught her glancing toward the woods, as if something unseen watched from beyond.

Later, as dusk surrendered to night, they sat beside the small campfire pit in front of the cottage. The stars had begun to bloom overhead, and the wind hummed low through the trees. Aelric reached into the small stack of firewood beside him.

“I’ll toss more in,” he said casually. “Could you give it a bit more flame before I do? It’s dying out.”

There was a pause. A breath too long.

He turned slightly and saw her hesitate. Her hand was already raised, fingers curled in the start of a spell, but something was wrong. Her wrist shook. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Then — a gasp.

A low groan escaped her throat like something had cracked inside her. The sound pierced him.

“Selyra?”

He dropped the logs and turned.

She was on her knees now, crumpled on the mossy stone beside the fire pit, her chest heaving. Her hair had fallen forward, hiding her face, but what he saw next stole the breath from his lungs.

A jagged web of dark violet veins spread from her collarbone and shoulder, pulsing faintly like ink spilled in water. The corrupt magic twisted across her skin like roots from a dying tree, glowing with a sickly energy that looked nothing like the magic he had grown up knowing from her. Her hand was pressed tightly over the mark as if trying to smother it, and when her hair fell away from her cheek, he saw a matching streak crawling up her jaw — as though magic itself had turned against her.

“No— Selyra, what is this? What happened to you?” he whispered, falling to his knees beside her.

Her eyes didn’t meet his. She only shook her head slowly, shame bleeding into her expression. “I… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He reached for her hand, gently pulling it away from her chest. The marks were worse underneath. The magic twisted and flickered, reacting to her pain — or to his touch.

“Selyra, this is a curse,” he murmured, horrified. “But… it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s feeding on your power, isn’t it?”

She gave a trembling nod. “A few moons ago… I tried to bind a rift. A tear between worlds. It wasn’t stable. The other witches wouldn’t go near it, but I… I thought I could contain it. I thought I could do what Merien would’ve done. But the rift… it lashed out. It didn’t just take my magic — it corrupted it.”

Aelric felt his heart sink like a stone in water. “You’ve been fighting this alone? All this time?”