The Crownless Curse

The villagers said the child had no soul.

Kael heard the whispers every time he passed the market square. Every time his feet touched the cracked stones, and every time the smoke from the butcher’s chimney curled into the sky. They called him cursed, a vessel for something that should have never touched the earth. But Kael did not care. Not anymore.

He had lived seventeen years with their fear. Seventeen winters of stares, of fingers crossed in front of their chests, of mothers pulling their children close when he walked by. The boy born under the blood eclipse. The boy with the mark.

He reached the edge of the woods where the trees stood tall like watchmen, silent and unmoving. The wind carried the scent of pine and something older, something buried deep beneath the roots. He knelt beside a crooked stone, brushing aside leaves until the symbol revealed itself. A circle split by a jagged line. The same symbol that haunted his nightmares.

It burned on his back, between his shoulders. It had appeared the day he turned ten, pulsing like fire beneath his skin. No one had touched him since.

Kael drew in a slow breath. The forest had always called to him, even when the village warned him never to enter. The stories said the woods swallowed men whole. That something ancient lived beneath the soil. But Kael had nothing to lose. Not when the entire village had already turned its back on him.

He stood and stepped beyond the boundary stone.

At first, the forest was quiet. Just the soft rustle of wind through the canopy and the crunch of dried leaves beneath his boots. But then the silence changed. It deepened. The birds no longer sang. The air thickened, heavy with expectation.

Kael walked farther, heart steady. Something was drawing him in. A pressure behind his ribs, like a voice without words. He had felt it for weeks now, a pull in his spine whenever he neared the woods. And now it surged.

There was a clearing up ahead.

He stepped into it and froze.

A stone altar stood in the center, worn with age and covered in moss. Symbols were carved into its surface, some matching the mark on his back. Others were stranger, shifting slightly when he stared too long. A ring of dead trees encircled the altar, their branches blackened, leaves crumbled to ash at their roots.

Kael moved closer. He reached out and placed his palm on the stone. It was warm.

The ground trembled.

A sharp pain tore through his shoulders and he dropped to his knees, gritting his teeth as the mark on his back ignited. His breath came fast. Something was awakening.

From the edge of the clearing, a shadow moved.

Kael’s head snapped up. A figure stepped between the trees, cloaked in black, face hidden beneath a deep hood. The air around them crackled with unseen power. Kael tried to stand but his legs failed him.

“You should not be here,” the figure said, voice neither male nor female, but something in between. Smooth and cold.

Kael forced his mouth to move. “What is this place?”

The figure tilted their head. “It is where your fate begins.”

The ground split open beneath the altar with a sound like tearing flesh. Light poured out, not white, but crimson. It rose in spirals, reaching toward the sky. The mark on Kael’s back burned brighter than ever.

“You are not ready,” the figure whispered.

Kael stood, staggering. “Then tell me what I am.”

The figure didn’t answer. Instead, they stepped backward, vanishing into shadow. And then the light from the altar struck him.

His mind fractured.

Images crashed into him. Cities drowned in fire. A crown floating above a sea of blood. Wings of smoke. Eyes like voids. Screams.

And in the center of it all, a throne made of bone.

Kael collapsed.

When he woke, it was night.

The clearing was empty. The altar was cold. But something had changed. His limbs felt stronger, his thoughts sharper. His skin tingled with unfamiliar power. He rose slowly, glancing at the trees. They leaned away from him now.

Kael looked down at his hands. Faint lines of crimson light pulsed beneath his skin.

He was not the same.

Back in the village, the bells were ringing.

Kael arrived just as the crowd gathered in the square. Flames from the torches cast long shadows on the walls. At the center stood Captain Darran, armored and grim, his blade drawn and dripping.

A body lay on the ground. Face down. Still.

Kael pushed through the villagers, ignoring their stares. He stopped when he saw the corpse. It was Mira. The apothecary’s daughter. One of the few who had ever spoken to him without fear.

Her throat had been slit.

Captain Darran turned, eyes narrowing when he spotted Kael.

“Where were you?” he asked, voice loud enough for the crowd.

Kael didn’t flinch. “In the woods.”

Murmurs spread like fire.

“Convenient,” Darran said, stepping forward. “You disappear the same night a girl is murdered. You, with your cursed mark and your shadowed past.”

Kael clenched his fists. “I didn’t kill her.”

Darran gestured to the body. “Then who did?”

Kael looked down at Mira. Her eyes stared blankly at the sky. Something twisted in his chest.

A faint trail of ash led away from the body. Kael stared at it, heart racing. Only he could see it. It shimmered faintly in the torchlight, leading away toward the old chapel ruins.

“I can find out,” Kael said quietly.

Darran laughed. “You? We should burn you now and save time.”

But someone in the crowd stepped forward.

It was the blind seeress. Old Elna, her face lined with age and sorrow.

“Let the boy speak,” she rasped. “The gods still have plans for him.”

Darran scowled but stepped back.

Kael turned without another word and followed the ash trail.

The chapel ruins sat on the edge of the moors, crumbling and forgotten. The ash trail ended at its broken gates. Kael stepped through, every sense alert.

Inside, moonlight spilled through shattered windows. Dust clung to the air. At the far end stood the altar, draped in cobwebs. A figure knelt before it.

Kael moved silently, heart pounding. He stopped just behind a cracked pillar.

The figure stood.

It was a girl.

She turned, and Kael froze.

She looked around his age, her hair silver-white though her face was young. Her eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the moon. She wore dark robes stitched with silver thread, and the moment she saw him, she smiled.

“You found me,” she said.

Kael stepped out. “Who are you?”

She tilted her head. “Someone who has been waiting for you. My name is Seris.”

“Did you kill Mira?”

Seris’s expression darkened. “No. But I saw who did.”

Kael’s breath caught. “Who?”

She turned to the altar. “Someone like you. Marked. But not chosen.”

Kael stepped closer. “What does that mean?”

Seris faced him again, and her voice dropped. “It means your mark is not the only one. And those with false marks will destroy everything unless you stop them.”

Kael felt the heat return to his spine.

“I don’t even know what I am,” he said.

Seris walked up to him, placing a hand on his chest.

“You are the heir to the throne that was never crowned. You are the curse made flesh. And soon, they will come for you.”

Before he could respond, the chapel shook.

A deep howl echoed from the hills. Not wolf, not man. Something in between.

Seris’s eyes narrowed.

“They found you.”

Kael turned toward the doors.

Shapes were moving in the fog. Dozens of them. Limbs too long. Faces hidden. Eyes that gleamed.

Seris drew a blade from her sleeve. It shimmered like water.

“Run?” Kael asked.

“No,” Seris said. “Fight.”

And then the creatures lunged.