Cursed By His Touch

cloaking the village of Elderglo

usty Lantern, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood as

ken laughter and the clink of tankards. Firelight danced in the hear

, every whisper. She'd learned to read a crowd the way a sailor reads the stars. Surv

t laced with a warning. She slid a mug across the counter, her movements fluid, practiced. The farmer grumbled but dug into his pocket, and Auren turned away, her heart thudding harder than it should.She wasn't ju

d a name that no longer fit. Now, under the alias "Lia," she poured drinks and

g. "Storm like this brings trouble. Mark my words."Auren forced a laugh, light as a sparrow's wing. "Trouble's always knocking, Mara. Doesn't mean I let it in." But her fingers tightene

f the storm itself had paused to listen. A gust of wind carried the scent of wet earth and something darker-iron, maybe, or blood. A man stood in the doorway, cloaked in black, his hood c

ut gleaming. "I seek a healer."Auren's heart stuttered, but she kept her face neutral, a mask she'd perfected. "You're in a tavern, not a sickhouse," she said, tossing the rag over her shoulder. "Try the apothecary down the lane."The stranger's head tilted, and though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt them-piercing, unyielding, like a blade pressed to her

ike chipped flint. "My lord is dying. He needs a healer with... uncommon gifts. Come with me to Thornvale Manor, and you'll be paid well. Refuse, and..." He let the thre

to prove it."What's the pay?" she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.The stranger's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Ten gold crowns. More if you succeed."A murmur rippled through the tavern. Ten crowns was a fortune-enough t

e whispered, her voice a hiss. "The Cursed Lord of the North don't take kindly to strangers. His touch is death."Auren's blood ran cold, but she pulled free, forcin

st her thighs. The stranger sat opposite, silent, as the carriage lurched forward, the village fading into the fog. Rain battered the roof, a relentless drumbe

omething else-something alive, waiting in the shadows of Thornvale Manor. She thought of Mara's warning, of the rumors that swirled like leaves in the wind: the Cursed Lord, a man whose touch brought death, whose manor was a tomb for the living. Her fingers brushed the scar on her palm, a remi

hand reaching for her, his touch warm, then cold as a grave. She gasped, the image fading, but the ache in her chest

owing like a sail in the wind. The manor loomed before her, its doors yawning wide, and for the first time in years, she felt the weight of her magic not as a c