The house was larger than I expected. Polished wood everywhere, each room carrying its own faint scent. One smelled sharply of rosemary. Another of old timber warmed by years of use. Others carried something I couldn’t quite name. It felt intentional, like every space had been shaped for a purpose rather than convenience.

  I followed Doyle as he hurried away from the main rooms and toward a passage cut into the hillside. The walls changed as we went. Wood gave way to stone, smooth planks replaced by cool rock beneath my fingers. The air shifted too, growing colder the deeper we moved.

  The corridor wound gently before opening into a space Doyle clearly wanted me to see.

  He didn’t say it outright, but the way he walked told me enough. This place mattered to him.

  “This is the oldest part of the cottage,” he said. “The house was built on top of it later.”

  I slowed, taking it in. The stonework was precise, carved with care. Faint runes traced the walls, some barely visible, others still holding a dull glow. Slivers of coloured glass had been pressed into cracks and seams, catching what little light there was like distant stars.

  “Who carved all this?” I asked.

  Doyle shrugged. “No idea. Someone’s ancestors, most likely.” He glanced back at me. “It is not unique. You will find places like this scattered all over the region.”

  “Why build it so deep?” I asked.

  The air grew cooler with every step. The light from above faded behind us.

  Doyle’s teeth flashed briefly in the dim. Not quite a smile. “I’m guessing survival was the first reason. The land back then was far less forgiving.”

  I believed that without question.

  “And the other?” I asked.

  “It puts you closer to the foundations of the land,” he said quietly. “Makes it easier to train. Easier to listen. Especially for those who want power.”

  Footsteps echoed behind us.

  The runes along the corridor brightened as someone approached.

  “Ah. Amelia,” Doyle said as the stones near her glowed a soft blue. “Finished your toast, have you?”

  She very clearly had not.

  A fresh slice protruded from her mouth, and she carried two more, one in each hand.

  “Mmph cometh’ wif,” she said around the toast.

  “Right,” I said, taking that as agreement.

  She fell in behind us, chewing with focus as we descended. The runes brightened whenever she passed, responding to her presence like they recognised her. Or approved of it.

  Ahead, the corridor ended at a round stone door marked with a single faded symbol. As we approached, the rune pulsed once, and the door slid aside.

  Sound spilled through the opening.

  Wood striking wood. Fast. Rhythmic.

  Inside the chamber, a short dark-haired boy was locked in what looked like a duel with a scarecrow.

  Except this one had four arms.

  Each arm held a wooden sword. Painted targets marked its straw body, and it moved with unsettling precision. Every time the boy struck, the construct twisted, ducked, or spun away with reflexes far too clean for something made of sticks and straw.

  I stared.

  “What is that?”

  “Oh, that?” Amelia said. “It’s our very own completely illegal training dummy.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” Doyle muttered. “He’s still favouring the broadsword.”

  “Idiot,” Amelia said, folding her arms. “He just cannot let it go.”

  I watched in silence. The boy handled the oversized training sword well enough, but it did not take long to see what Doyle meant. He was fighting the weapon as much as the dummy. Every swing landed a fraction too late. Every recovery dragged.

  “Shit,” the boy snapped.

  With a frustrated grunt, he abandoned the sword mid-motion and drew a wooden dagger instead.

  The change was immediate.

  His stance tightened. His breathing steadied. He slipped inside the whirling arms, parrying with short, economical movements. Two of the dummy’s wooden blades were knocked free. A third was redirected with a sharp flick of his wrist.

  He rolled aside, came up low, and struck one of the painted targets. A fresh marker flipped into place on the dummy’s chest.

  He did not hesitate.

  The dagger punched straight into the centre.

  The construct shuddered. A faint pulse ran through its frame before the limbs sagged and collapsed into the floor.

  As soon as it stilled, a small light blinked to life inside the boy’s pocket.

  “Ah, finally,” he said, his accent thick with satisfaction as he pulled out a card.

  “Did you get it?” Doyle called.

  The boy grinned. “Course I did, mate.”

  “Should have stuck with the dagger,” Amelia muttered.

  He shot her a look. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Second stage already?” Doyle said, surprise slipping into his voice. “You only picked up that blessing two days ago?”

  That caught my attention.

  Two days was fast. Even by the standards Jerald had outlined.

  The notebook had been clear about blessings advancing in stages, but it had also warned that progress was rarely clean or predictable. My own path had never been simple. Any blessing I tried to cultivate would be complicated. The curse was not just a limiter. It was an unknown variable. How much it would interfere, where it would twist things, or whether it would reject growth entirely was still anyone’s guess.

  Doyle’s gaze flicked to me, sharp and knowing, as if checking whether I had reached the same conclusion.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “A few more stages and I will breeze through the trial,” the boy said brightly. “Hey, who’s the new kid?”

  “Rob, this is Sean,” Doyle said. “He will be training with you. So be nice.”

  Rob turned to me, eyes bright with curiosity. “How many blessings you got?”

  I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “Enough to be cautious.”

  The blonde girl nudged past him with a scowl. “Seriously, Rob? That is the first thing you ask him?”

  Rob opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. He stuck his tongue out at her instead. “You see that, Amelia? That is two blessings at second stage now. Beat that?”

  “Congratulations on your advancement,” she said with a smirk. “Now you can hit things twice as hard with a stick.”

  She walked toward one of the distant targets and crouched to scoop up a stone from a nearby basket. Rolling it between her fingers, she closed her eyes and took a slow breath.

  The air shifted.

  A faint hum crept through the chamber as power gathered around her hand. It was subtle but unmistakable. The stone vibrated once, then shot forward.

  Crack.

  It struck dead centre, splintering the target and sending fragments skittering across the floor.

  Rob stared. “You hit second stage? Since when?”

  “Before breakfast,” she said sweetly.

  Doyle raised a brow. “So that is why you were so hungry?”

  She nodded.

  Rob did not even try for a comeback. He grabbed his fallen sword and jumped straight back into training, a grin splitting his face as the dummy lurched upright again.

  “Fine. I’ll get myself a sword blessing,” he said as the construct whirred to life. “Then I’ll smash you to the next stage. Just wait.”

  “I am sensing a bet,” Amelia said, her smile turning sharp.

  Rob nodded eagerly.

  Doyle chuckled as the two of them immediately lost themselves in training. “That boy has come a long way since he joined us,” he said. “Careful with the dummy, Rob. We only just got it fixed.”

  “Sure thing,” Rob called back.

  I watched them, unable to look away.

  Could I do that? Progress that fast? Power that clean?

  My gaze drifted across the training hall. It was far larger than I had realised. Ranged targets for bows and spears lined one wall. Shelves of old books stacked another. Off to the side, clusters of stone weights formed what looked like a primitive gym.

  The place was built for one thing.

  Getting stronger.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing toward the large stone door at the far end of the hall.

  Doyle followed my gaze and shook his head. “Not a place we can enter.”

  “What is it then?”

  He shrugged. “No idea. It’s been sealed since before I took over this place. I’ve never seen it open.”

  That alone was enough to snag my attention.

  Everything down here existed for training. Improving. Growing stronger. And yet that door stood apart, untouched, deliberately kept out of reach.

  A special training chamber? A forgotten archive? Maybe even a vault filled with old knowledge?

  The thought sent a quiet thrill through me. If there was anything in this place that could help with the curse, it would be behind a door like that.

  Or at least, I hoped it would.

  “Well then,” Doyle said, brushing dust from his hands, “let us leave the children to their training. I will show you the rest of the house.”

  I nodded and followed him back through the tunnel and up toward the second floor. The temperature shifted almost immediately. The air grew warmer, softer, the chill of stone replaced by something more lived in. Ancient fur rugs muffled our steps as we moved along the corridor.

  “That one is Amelia’s,” Doyle said, nodding toward a pale green door covered in chalk drawings of plants and flowers. The designs curled over the frame like creeping vines.

  “She drew all that herself?” I asked.

  “Sure did,” he said, a hint of pride slipping into his voice. “The girl has promise.”

  Further along, Doyle neatly sidestepped a lone sock abandoned in the middle of the hallway before stopping beside an open door framed in red. A small mountain of clothing, books, and assorted junk spilled across the floor.

  “The boy is a menace,” he muttered.

  “Rob’s room?” I asked.

  He nodded with a weary sigh. “I cleaned it just yesterday.”

  I smiled faintly. The hall was a study in contrasts. Care and chaos living side by side, depending on which door you passed. Doyle shook his head as we continued, stepping around the occasional misplaced item.

  At the end of the corridor, he slowed.

  “And this one,” he said, turning to face me, “is yours.”

  He nodded toward a large, round door at the far end of the corridor. The wood was old, older than anything else in the house, darkened almost to charcoal as if time itself had worn it smooth.

  “No one’s used this room for a very long time,” he said quietly.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I kept it empty,” Doyle replied. “It belonged to the owner of the house. Your father.”

  I blinked.

  “It did?” I murmured, something tight and unfamiliar stirring in my chest.

  Doyle gave a small, encouraging nod. “Go on.”

  My hand closed around the tarnished bronze handle.

  I did not know what kind of man my father had been. I had never met any of my family. Jerald’s rare visits were the closest thing I had ever known to a parent. And now here was a door, quiet and ordinary, holding a past I had never been allowed to touch.

  I turned the handle and pushed.

  The door opened with a dull creak.

  Light flooded the room.

  A wide, circular skylight dominated the ceiling, sunlight pouring through and warming the air. The space was smaller than I expected. A narrow bed sat to the left. A few empty shelves lined the walls. Everything had been polished clean.

  Too clean.

  There was no hidden cache. No relics. No answers waiting for me.

  Disappointment crept in before I could stop it. Whatever history this room once held had been stripped away long ago.

  Still, it was far better than the hole I had lived in for years.

  I crossed to the window. The room sat high on the slope, high enough that I could climb out and wander the grass if I wanted. It faced away from the village, opening onto rolling green valleys. A thin stream cut through the hills. Beyond it all stood a dark line of forest and, farther still, white-capped mountains piercing the sky.

  “Nice view,” I said.

  Doyle hummed. “I wager you have the best room in the house.”

  He moved to the window and pushed it open. “Open these in the afternoon and you’ll catch the full breath of the Twilight Calm.”

  “The what now?”

  Doyle let out a sharp breath. “That blockhead.”

  “Blockhead?” I asked.

  “Jerald,” he snapped. “That blockhead. I knew he was careless, but this?”

  “Um…”

  “He was supposed to inform you. Teach you. Since I cannot cross sides, your education was his responsibility.”

  “He did,” I said quickly. “He gave me a notebook. Stories, mostly.”

  “Stories?” Doyle stared at me. “Is that all?”

  He looked genuinely shaken. “He told me his access to city records was limited, but I did not realize it was this bad. If your father knew…”

  He stopped himself and tapped his foot, muttering under his breath. Then he looked back at me, expression softening.

  “This is not your fault,” he said. “It is that blockhead’s.”

  “He said the information here was dangerous,” I offered.

  Doyle sighed. “It is. But Jerald was never book-smart. Never learned how to teach without swinging a sword.”

  At that moment, I gave a silent thanks that I had never been forced through one of these lessons.

  “Alright,” Doyle said. “I see the problem. I’ll have to fill in the blanks. You do not even know the basics of the Twilight Calm.”

  “And what is that exactly?” I asked.

  Doyle sighed and pointed out the window. “See there?”

  I followed his finger to the distant, snow-capped mountains. “Yeah. What’s on the other side?”

  He wagged a finger. “Not what. Who. Those are Druid lands.”

  I frowned slightly.

  “You will likely see one someday,” he continued. “But that is beside the point. Druids are a devout lot. They perform daily rituals. One of those is the Twilight Calm.”

  “A ritual,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “It sends a wave of calming air across the land. Helps suppress hunger, aggression, certain instincts. A way to keep dangerous creatures from boiling over.”

  “And everyone just lets them do this?”

  “It is one of the reasons no one has declared war on them,” Doyle said dryly. “Well. Not us. Humans.”

  I glanced back toward the mountains. Their white peaks hinted at a world far larger than anything I had known. Birds cut across the open sky. Below, tall grass rolled in the wind.

  “Alright,” Doyle said. “I will tutor you when I can. And it would be best if the others do not learn how uninformed you are.”

  “I’ll try my best,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “Sleepy?”

  “Yeah. It’s still midnight where I come from.”

  “Then get a few hours of rest,” he said. “I’ll start your lessons before dinner.”

  I thanked him and watched him leave. When the door closed, I turned back to the window.

  The cottage was an unexpected treasure.

  I ran my hand along the cool glass and unlatched it, letting fresh air spill into the room. This had been my father’s space. His room. His house.

  Something warm stirred in my chest, an emotion I had learned to bury.

  It was comfortable here. Quiet. Safe in a way I had not felt in years. A place I could almost imagine belonging.

  My thoughts drifted to the others training below. Their talk of blessings, stages, power.

  I would figure this place out.

  I would follow their lead and grow stronger.

  As my hand slipped from the window frame, a sound reached me.

  Distant horns. Low and drawn out. Carried on the wind from far beyond the village.

  And the instant I heard it, something inside me tightened.

  “Shit…”

  I had let my guard down.

  My jaw clenched. My body locked.

  Heat exploded across my skin as the curse tore through me, stronger than it had ever been. There was no time to question it.

  I fell.

  My head struck the floor. Pain burst through my skull, sharp and blinding. Blood filled my mouth, hot and metallic. I convulsed, muscles seizing as my body thrashed against the stone.

  The pain was absolute.

  I tried to scream. My mouth opened, but no sound came.

  My vision swam. I saw blood smeared across the floor, my own, before the room collapsed into darkness.

  But the pain followed me.

  There was no release. No mercy. No rest, even as consciousness slipped away.

  The curse would not allow it.