Chapter 19 — The Curse and the Light
Kael Grenfort:
Axxxx…
Pain. In my chest — between my ribs, a few centimeters from my heart — something awakened. As if a sleeping creature had opened its eyes after a million years. Slowly, groggily, but mercilessly.
This wasn't a simple bruise or muscle strain. This was something deeper, more ancient, almost alive. The scar. That red mark I'd had since birth. That strange blemish between my ribs that had never bothered me, never hurt, never even itched. Until now.
Why? Why now? Why here, at this moment?
I knew this scar wasn't accidental. My father and mother had been surprised when they saw it at my birth. The book had said: "Some children are born with marks — these are the legacies of ancient families, or… signs of something else."
Something else…
And now that "something else" was waking up.
I clutched my chest. My fingers touched the scar — it was hot, almost burning. My breath grew short and sharp. Each inhale brought pain — as if someone was sticking a needle into my chest and slowly turning it.
Huff… puff…
Darkness began to appear at the edges of my vision. First small dots, then larger patches, then — the whole field darkened.
No. I can't lose consciousness. No.
Sweat poured down my forehead — droplets ran down my face, then my neck, then my chest, soaking my clothes.
"Kael! What's wrong?!"
Sedric's voice. It sounded distant — as if he were at the far end of a tunnel, while I was at the bottom of a deep well. But in the next second, he burst into the tent, eyes wide, his face showing panic — a panic I had never seen before.
"What's happening, son?!"
"Huffffff… arrrghhhh… my chest…!" I gasped, pressing both palms over the scar. My teeth were clenched, my jaw locked.
Sedric didn't hesitate. He flicked his hand — the mana around me trembled for an instant, and my clothes vanished, undone by magic. They dissolved in the air and disappeared.
"Show me," he said, his voice taut, hard, almost commanding.
I slowly pulled my hands away.
My fingers were stained with sticky blood from the scar — I hadn't noticed.
The scar had changed.
What had once been a faint, reddish, almost invisible mark was now an open wound — raw, red, and noticeably larger than before. Its edges looked inflamed, almost angry. And around the wound — small, black veins, like roots or insect legs — were spreading under my skin.
"This shouldn't be happening," Sedric muttered, his voice trembling slightly. "The mana core has nothing to do with this — it shouldn't affect a birthmark…"
His hand hovered over the wound. Mana flickered at his fingertips — a soft, greenish light — but he hesitated. He didn't know what to do. I saw fear in his eyes — in my father's eyes, in the eyes of a man who was never afraid.
"Father…" I said. My voice came out weak, hoarse. "It hurts…"
"I know, son. I know. Be strong."
He took my hand — his palm was large, warm, reassuring. But his hand was trembling too.
Just then, the tent entrance rustled.
Zegfort Hamel stepped inside.
His footsteps were soundless, his face wore its usual casual smile — but there was seriousness in his eyes. He understood everything at a glance.
"Hey, hey, you two — calm down. Panic won't change anything," he said, his voice steady, almost annoyingly calm.
He approached me, knelt to my level. Looked into my eyes — for a moment, long and deep. Then spoke.
"Alright, move your hand. Let me see."
I moved my hand. Another wave of pain — strong, sharp, almost unbearable. I bit my lip. A moan escaped my throat — I didn't even hear it myself.
Zegfort leaned in. His ancient, all-seeing eyes studied the wound carefully. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. He touched the edge of the wound with his finger — I flinched, but the pain didn't intensify; instead, it seemed to lessen slightly.
Silence stretched. A few seconds — but they felt like hours. Inside the tent, only the rustle of the wind and my breathing could be heard.
"Well?!" Sedric shouted impatiently. "Is he alright? What happened to him?!"
"Calm down, I said," Zegfort replied without looking up. "Panic is the worst advisor."
"But —"
"Calm down."
One word. But it carried such power that Sedric fell silent at once. His hand was still in mine, but it no longer trembled.
Zegfort raised his hand over my chest. A soft, golden light emanated from his palm — spreading across the wound like warm water, slowly easing the pain. At first slowly — the pain didn't vanish instantly; it retreated, like a wave receding from the shore. Then faster. And finally — it disappeared completely.
For the first time, I took a full breath. Deep, long, trembling.
Huff… huff… huff…
I only then noticed that tears had escaped my eyes. They ran down my cheeks, toward my ears.
"There, there, boy. You're fine," Zegfort said. He patted my head — as if speaking to a lost puppy. There was no mockery or cunning in this gesture — only warmth and comfort.
Then he stood, dusted off his hands — as if cleaning something from them — and walked out of the tent. Without a word. Without looking back.
Sedric came to my side. He placed his hand on my forehead — checking for fever. His palm was cool.
"Rest," he said quietly. "I'll be right back."
And he followed Zegfort outside.
I lay there, staring at the tent ceiling. Wooden beams, tiny rays of light passing between them.
He's treating me like a child.
Hmmmphhh.
I'm actually a grown man, you know — in a seven-year-old's body, but a grown man. I've seen death, I've managed political intrigues, I've influenced the fate of entire worlds. I —
Argghhh!
Another sharp jab — not as strong as before, but enough to make me wince. The scar reminded me of its presence once more.
Alright, alright, quiet. You are strong. But now — rest.
My eyes closed.
---
Outside, their voices drifted through the thin walls of the tent. I could hear every word clearly. Strange — my hearing had always been sharp, but this was different. As if the tent fabric had vanished, as if they were standing right beside me.
Perhaps it's a side effect of the pain. Or the scar. Or whatever is happening to me.
In old stories, heroes grow stronger the more wounds they take, right? Hahaha…
My laugh was hollow. The laugh of a tired man.
---
Sedric Grenfort and Zegfort Hamel:
Zegfort leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed, his face unreadable. Neither anger nor pity — only a cold, calculating gaze.
Sedric stopped before him. His breathing was still rapid.
"Well? What's wrong with him?"
"Your son is fine — for now," Zegfort repeated.
"For now? What does that mean?"
Zegfort sighed. A long, deep sigh, from his entire being. Then he rubbed his temples — a habit of a tired man.
"That mark on his chest… it's not a birthmark. It's a curse."
Sedric's face turned pale. "A curse?"
"Yes. Ancient. Powerful. And — cunning."
"But he was born with it —"
"Exactly. Which means someone cursed him before he was even born. Before he drew his first breath. Before he first opened his eyes. Someone wanted to leave their mark on him."
Sedric's hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms. "Who? How? Why?"
"Those are the wrong questions," Zegfort shook his head. "The right question is: can it be fixed?"
"Can it?"
Zegfort was silent for a moment. He stared into the distance — at the endless desert sands, at the sun melting into the horizon.
"The people who could undo such a curse… they don't exist among mortals. No mage, no family, no academy can do this. He would need a blessing — directly from a god. A true god, one of the Celestials."
"And even then…"
"And even then, there's no guarantee," Zegfort finished his sentence. "Gods are capricious beings. They might help, or they might laugh in your face and turn away."
Sedric fell silent. His face held a frozen expression — pain, anger, and something else — despair.
Zegfort placed a hand on his shoulder.
"But the curse is still weak. Small. It is growing — but slowly. He has time. Fifteen, maybe twenty years. If he becomes strong enough — if he proves himself, finds his own path — he might break the curse himself."
"Himself?"
"Yes. The strongest curses can only be broken by the one who placed them, or… the one who bears them. If he is strong enough."
Sedric took a deep breath. Then another. And another.
"I understand," he said. "Thank you."
He turned and walked back into the tent.
Zegfort watched him go. Then looked back at the horizon — at the endless silence of the desert.
"Be strong, boy," he said quietly, to no one but the wind. "Be strong, because ahead… there is fire."
---
Kael Grenfort:
Sedric entered the tent. His face was calm now — too calm. The calm after a storm, the ashes after a fire.
"It's nothing serious, just a small wound," he said, forcing a smile.
He's lying. He thinks I'm a child who can't handle the truth. Or… he wants to protect me.
Both.
"Yes, Father," I said, smiling back. "I know."
"Are you feeling better? We leave at dawn tomorrow. The caravan is stopped to assess the damage."
"Yes, Father. I'm like you. I rested, now everything's fine."
He nodded, squeezed my shoulder — gently, fatherly — and left.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling, my hand pressed against my chest — over the scar, over the curse.
"He would need a blessing from a god," Zegfort had said.
A god.
What a strange world this is. Once, I didn't believe in gods. I said they were crutches for the weak. And now… now I'm a man waiting for a god's blessing.
Laughter. Dark laughter.
Well… I have time. Fifteen, twenty years. In that time, I will become strong. Or I will die.
There is no other way.
My eyes closed. Sleep — heavy, deep, dreamless — took me into its embrace.
---
The next day.
The carriage rolled across the desert. I sat by the window, chin propped on my hand, elbow resting on the frame, watching the endless sand drift past.
The sun had just risen — red, large, merciless on the horizon. The sands burned like fire.
Well… we're on the road again. The night passed so quickly I barely noticed. The pain — it's still there, somewhere, waiting. But for now — peace.
Across from me, Father was reading — as always. A thick, dusty tome of high-grade spells. His eyes raced across the lines, his fingers traveled between the pages.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my own spellbook. Its cover was leather, its pages yellowed. I opened it and smelled it. Ancient paper, ink, and… time.
I flipped through the pages.
Hmm… so that's how it works.
Gravity. The force that holds everything together.
The words swirled in my mind. It can bind. Or it can tear apart. Incredible power.
In my past life, the laws of physics had been almost the same across worlds. Gravity was gravity. Mass attracted mass. But here… here, gravity could be shaped. Controlled. Weaponized.
I wonder if the same laws apply to curses…
The curse…
I remembered the scar. Its heat, its pain, its spreading black veins.
No. Not now. Now — practice.
I flicked my wrist. A small whirlwind of air spun across my palm — light, controlled, dancing between my fingers like a living thing.
Sedric looked up, glanced at me, then returned to his book.
He said nothing. He trusts me.
Or he's afraid to ask.
Both.
I grew the whirlwind in my palm. It became a small storm — it left my hand and spun around inside the carriage. Papers rustled, Sedric's hair ruffled.
He looked at me again. This time — his eyebrows slightly furrowed.
"Kael."
"Yes, Father?"
"Test your magic… outside, not inside."
"Okay, Father."
I extinguished the whirlwind. Stuck my hand out the window and created another whirlwind over the sands. It spun the sand, lifting fine dust into the air.
Not bad.
Not bad at all.
And I thought: one day, I will control gravity like this. One day, I will shatter that curse like this.
One day.
But now — now I am just on the road.
Forward.
---