Trafalgar leaned against the wall, the faint glow of the infirmary lanterns casting long shadows across the room. He had nothing left to say to Mayla. His thoughts twisted inward, dragging him back into the storm he carried.
'Nothing from here on will be easy. I can feel it. Like when I first woke up in this cursed body… those first weeks were hell. Rivena's attempt, the assassins, the Veiled Woman, the mine. Every step has been a fight to breathe.'
He rubbed his temple, trying to steady the pounding in his head.
'The so-called title of Cursed Heir fits too damn well. Misfortune clings to me like a shadow, and it's not letting go. Even that witch's words echo still—"Your fate is already written." At the time I brushed it off. But now? Living through all this? Tch. Maybe she wasn't lying.'
The silence between him and Mayla grew heavy, but strangely not suffocating. She sat with that gentle smile, one that seemed to reach him despite everything. A warmth he wasn't used to.
