A searing pain rips through Ogata, the cursed markings flaring to life and scorching his flesh. He clenches his jaw until he tastes blood. The seizures are growing more frequent, more intense with every passing day.

At this rate, the curse will consume him before he can achieve his ultimate goal—gaining admittance to the prestigious Academy for the Magical Arts. Itʼs the only path for an ill-born whelp like him to ascend to the highest ranks and become Head Magus of the 7th Imperial Division. To prove once and for all that he and his late father are cut from the same tainted cloth.

Ogataʼs brow furrows as he studies the scattered tomes and scrolls littering the floor, the scant lore on ancestral curses heʼs managed to unearth thus far. The knowledge is lacking—too little is truly understood about the dying maledictions of powerful mages. And he can never reveal the truth of how he came to bear this curse, not without incriminating himself for patricide.

Thereʼs only one faint whisper of hope amidst the dead ends. An ancient legend tells of a reclusive forest spirit or mage, sequestered deep in the northern woods. A being of untold power who may possess the ability to unravel even the darkest of curses... if they can be found.

Ogataʼs jaw sets in a hard line. Heʼll have to venture into that treacherous, twisted woodland—a place where reality is said to blur, where the unwary lose their way and are never seen again. It may be nothing more than a fairytale, a phantasm to lure the desperate. But he has little choice except to chase that faint hope—before his goals turn to ash between his fingertips. ××× Ogata presses forward, the twisted trunks closing in around him like spectral sentinels. His boots crunch over the carpet of decaying foliage and scattered bones, the skeletal remains of some long-dead creature.

A piercing cry splits the eerie quiet, the sound of some untamed beast nearby. Ogataʼs hand squeezes the gnarled staff as his cold gaze tracks the forest shadows.