The Night She Found Him

The forest was never silent. It whispered — through trembling leaves, through the breath of unseen things that lingered long after midnight. Aria moved quietly among them, her cloak brushing against damp moss as the wind carried the scent of rain and blood.

Blood.

Her pulse quickened. She crouched, fingers tracing crimson drops along the roots of an oak. Still warm. Fresh. A wounded animal, perhaps — or something worse. The night in Avelen held more monsters than men ever spoke of.

A soft groan broke the silence. Male. Close. Aria’s breath caught as she followed the sound, pushing through a curtain of vines until she saw him.

He was slumped against a tree, half-covered in mud, his clothes torn and darkened with blood. The moon revealed his face in fragments — sharp cheekbones, a mouth too perfect for mercy, eyes half-open and burning like dying embers.

For a moment, she froze. Every witch knew his name.

Lucien Crowe. The Venom King.

Lord of the Black Citadel. Cursed by gods, untouchable by mortal hands. His very touch was death — or so the legends warned.

Aria should have turned back. Should have left him to the curse he’d earned. But something in the way he breathed — ragged, shallow, human — made her hesitate.

“You’ll die if I leave you,” she whispered.

His eyes flickered open, the faintest glint of silver beneath the moonlight. “And if you stay?” His voice was hoarse, laced with something dark and bitter. “You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“I’m not afraid,” she lied.

Lucien’s lips curved into something close to a smile — cruel and broken. “Witches always say that before they burn.”

She ignored the warning and knelt beside him. Her hands hovered above his wound — a deep gash along his ribs, poisoned and blackened at the edges. The curse was alive in his veins, crawling like shadows beneath his skin.

Aria closed her eyes and whispered the spell. Light bloomed between her palms — soft, silver, and trembling like her breath. The magic sank into his flesh, fighting the venom that resisted her every word. He flinched, biting back a growl that made her heart stutter.

When it was done, she sagged back, breathless. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her.

Lucien looked down at the fading wound, then up at her. “No one touches me and lives,” he said softly.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not anyone,” she murmured.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched — thick, dangerous, almost intimate. Then he moved, too fast for a wounded man. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist with startling strength. His skin burned cold, and she felt something sharp, electric, crawl beneath her pulse.

Magic. Or maybe venom.

His voice was a low whisper against her ear. “You shouldn’t have done that, witchling.”

And before she could pull away, the forest seemed to fade — the ground trembling beneath them as his curse answered hers.

Their souls collided.

Light. Shadow. Pain.

And then — nothing.

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