My eyes blurred as I worked through the old book. Most of it was nothing but long lists of blessing types and their uses… pages and pages of them. There really did seem to be a blessing for everything, most of them the “minor” sort Doyle had mentioned.

  Still, it didn’t take long to reach the part I actually needed—the section on how blessings were acquired. My heart skipped as I read:

  When acquiring ‘Blessings’ one must understand that they are the remnants of power left unto this world by the Old Ones. Long ago, within the Realm of Mists, dwelt ancient beings of long life and great might. These beings shaped the land according to their will, bending hill and river as easily as a potter turns clay.

  Who, or what, were these Old Ones? Gods? Ancient wizards? The idea of beings powerful enough to mould the world was unsettling, especially when the book spoke of them plainly, not as legend but as history.

  Though their forms have since passed beyond the mortal veil, the force of their workings yet lingers. This power, full of intent, wanders still across field and fen, though unseen by common eyes.

  At whiles, when a mortal labours long enough in a single craft or performs a task with faithful repetition, the essence of such old power may find its way unto them. Should it touch the worker, the intent of the Old Ones fasten itself to the host, who thereafter may wield it, strengthen it, and be changed by it.

  “Just as I thought…” I mumbled to myself. Repeat a task often enough and, eventually, a blessing might take hold. That was likely why new aspirants trained in places like the underground hall, closer to whatever “intent” these powers carried.

  If that was the case, I had a decision to make: pick something, train it relentlessly, and hope a blessing formed. But would that even work for someone like me? Would the curse drive away that so-called intent before it ever took root?

  A knock sounded at the door… Doyle’s familiar, low tap.

  “Hello? Come in…”

  Doyle slipped inside, balancing a tray of scones and a small vial of water.

  “How’s the arm?”

  I glanced down. It felt almost normal, strange, considering the troll attack.

  “It stung at first, but… I think I’ll get away with just a bruise.”

  Doyle didn’t look convinced. “Amelia said that blow should’ve broken it.”

  I gave a half-shrug. “It definitely hurt…”

  I flexed my fingers, testing the joint. Any pain buried there was simply drowned out by the curse’s usual burn. “See? I’m fine.”

  “That was very stupid of you… But I’m glad neither of you are hurt.” he said, though not fully convinced. He set the tray on the bed and closed the door behind him. His tone shifted.

  “And about the troll… was that everything?”

  Right. The cat story clearly hadn’t convinced him. I exhaled and told him the truth, about the troll, the curse, the red coils, the pain. As I spoke, his face grew still.

  “I think I know what kind of curse you have,” he said at last.

  “Really?” The word came out far too desperate.

  He lifted a hand, steadying me. “Easy. I said I know what kind, not the exact curse. Whatever’s got you isn’t a simple thing. Curses that transfer between hosts are… exceedingly rare. But the red tendrils, the burning…”

  “All very painful,” I muttered.

  His expression softened with something close to pity. “A heavy burden for anyone. Not the sort of fate I’d wish on a soul.”

  “Yeah,” I breathed.

  He offered a thin smile with no humour behind it, then cleared his throat. “Anyway. I spent last night in the college library.”

  I froze.

  “The college. You mean the place Amelia wants to go?”

  “Yes. That one.”

  I let the impossible image of Doyle sneaking around a prestigious institution pass without comment. There were more important things to ask.

  “So… what kind of curse do I have?”

  He drew a slow breath. “A blood curse.”

  I waited for more, but he sighed as though the words themselves were heavy.

  “It’s a form of power that’s been outlawed for generations,” he said quietly. “Meaning whoever placed this on you, because yes, Sean, this isn’t some naturally occurring affliction… they did so deliberately. Someone chose this for you. And they did it with purpose.”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  The room seemed to still around us as the weight of that settled in.

  “Jerald’s been tied up with state matters,” Doyle said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And now, with a troll loose and all the new aspirants pouring into the city making their usual mess, things have only gotten worse. A creature wandering the countryside is… an unfortunate distraction.”

  I nodded slowly. “So, what do we do? How do we even begin to figure out who cursed me?”

  Doyle gave a small shake of his head. “That isn’t a task for you… not the you as you are now. That answer belongs to the you who can stand on his own feet, who can defend himself properly when the time comes. For now, Jerald and I will follow what trails we can.”

  My gaze drifted to the vial beside the scones. The liquid shimmered faintly in the slanted light from the skylight. “What’s that?”

  Doyle’s expression brightened. “Your Foundation Elixir, the one I promised each of you. Only a single dose, and it won’t last long.”

  “Should I take it now?”

  He chuckled. “No, no. Train first. Push yourself until you can’t squeeze another inch of strength from your body. Take it at the moment you hit that wall. The elixir gives you a burst of energy, but more importantly, when you’re training at your limit, the intent you’re trying to draw in… whatever blessing you’re aiming for, is closest. That’s when you want this in your veins. That’s how you maximise its effect.”

  I nodded, gripping the vial more carefully. “Thanks, Doyle.”

  “Nah,” he said, waving a hand. “You three earned it. Taking on a troll and living to complain about it is madness for fresh aspirants.” His eyes flicked to the book open on my lap, and he smiled. “Well, anyway,” he said, stepping back toward the door, “I’ll leave you to it. Seems you’ve got things handled.”

  “I hope I do.”

  He gave a small, tired smile, the kind that held more worry than confidence. “Good luck.”

  Then he slipped out, leaving me alone with the book, the elixir, and far too many thoughts.

  When Doyle’s footsteps finally faded down the hall, I closed the book and drifted toward the tray he’d left. Two scones, cream and fresh jam. He’d even set out a small knife. The spirit really was determined to fatten us up. Good luck with Amelia, I thought. She could probably devour the whole town and still be hungry.

  The smell was too good to ignore. My stomach tightened just looking at them.

  I reached for the knife, simple, harmless and the moment my fingers closed around the handle, my arm twitched.

  A cold prickle slid up my skin.

  Not now!

  The blade trembled in my grasp. Heat flared beneath my skin, sharp and sudden, racing from my wrist to my shoulder. My breath hitched.

  “Gah…”

  The knife slipped.

  My whole arm jolted as a fresh spike of pain tore through it, the curse clawing to the surface as if it had been waiting for the slightest excuse. The knife slipped from my fingers and my hand jerked sideways. Heat flared across my skin—a sharp, burning slice—and blood splattered across the floorboards.

  The knife clattered beside me as my legs gave out.

  I hit the ground hard.

  For a moment, all I could do was lie there shaking, breath locked in my chest, the curse twisting through my muscles until I could barely even blink. My gaze fixed on the smear of red in front of me.

  Then… confusion.

  The blood moved.

  In the strip of sunlight cutting across the floor, it was impossible to deny. The red smear thinned, stretched… crawled. Not on its own, but as though something was drawing it. I stared as the droplets slid toward a crooked floorboard. The moment they touched the gap, they vanished beneath it.

  Something was under there.

  It took a long while before the curse loosened enough for me to move. When I finally pushed myself upright, the first thing I did was retrieve the knife. My hand still shook faintly as I crouched over the crooked board. I wedged the blade into the gap and tested the wood.

  Firm but not nailed down.

  Someone hadn’t wanted this plank secured.

  And now my blood had just fed whatever waited beneath it.

  The wood was stubborn, but curiosity wouldn’t let me stop. I pressed my weight onto the knife again. This time the board shifted.

  Beneath it lay something long and dark… metal, though unlike any metal I’d ever seen. It swallowed the light rather than catching it, as if the shadows clung to it on purpose. I brushed away the years of dust and eased it free from its hiding place.

  A sword. Or what remained of one. It was heavy…

  Had this belonged to my father?

  It looked as though it had been hidden down there for decades. The whole thing was forged from a single piece of metal, no leather wrappings, no fittings, no foreign parts. Just one solid mass. The grip had been worn smooth by hands long gone, and whatever once served as a cross guard was now little more than a faint ridge.

  The blade was pitted and scarred, its edges softened by time, yet the metal underneath felt impossibly dense… untouched by rust. Heavier and harder than anything I’d ever seen.

  It shouldn’t have survived down here at all.

  But it had.

  Waiting.

  Looking for any clue as to why the blade had been hidden, I sifted through the debris. No note. No markings. Just the sword… and a scabbard buried under the debris. It was black. Midnight black. Not painted, not dyed, simply black.

  On instinct, I slid the blade into the scabbard. It settled with a soft, perfect click, as if the two had never been parted. For a moment I just stared at it. Old, worn, more relic than weapon… whatever value it had now was likely sentimental. Something hidden away, not meant for use.

  I was halfway to returning it to its nook beneath the floorboards when I froze. The blood from the cut on my hand was moving towards the sword.

  Slowly. Purposefully.

  It crept toward the handle, touched the dark metal…

  and vanished.

  A breath caught in my throat. Something was different.

  Where my hand gripped the blade, there was no fire. No bite. Only the cool, solid weight of metal. It was if the curse had been swallowed by the sword. Relief hit so hard it almost stole my balance.

  It was only my hand, just one small patch of flesh, but for the first time in years, the constant burn that lived beneath my skin faded too almost nothing.

  Whatever this sword was, whatever my father had hidden…

  it mattered.

  My hands trembled, not with fear this time, but something dangerously close to hope. I wanted to test it. To be sure. Curiosity tugged harder than caution, and before I could talk myself out of it, I drew the blade from its scabbard once more and set the cool metal against my opposite forearm.

  The effect was immediate.

  The constant throb beneath my skin eased, as though the metal were soaking up the ache itself. A quiet breath escaped me.

  A thought crept in, small but stubborn:

  I might not be able to wield this thing…

  but perhaps I could wear it.

  If it really drew the curse away…

  I needed to be sure.

  I slid the blade back into the sheath and held it against my chest, almost hugging it, wondering if the relief wasn’t limited to where metal touched skin. If it could ease the rest of me too just from holding onto it.

  I waited, hope clawing at me harder than the curse ever had.

  Slowly, not instantly like before, something shifted. The constant fire that lived in my joints eased by a fraction. Barely anything… yet more than I’d felt in years.

  A smile tugged at my mouth before I realised. This blade, probably cursed like me could be my answer on gaining strength.

  I got to my feet and threaded the sword through my belt. The effect was faint, but real.