The village had rules about the island.

  I was about to break the most important one.

  By tomorrow, I would either be on the other side…

  or dead.

  I stood in my hidden grove with one bare hand pressed against the trunk of the old oak. The bark was rough beneath my palm, grounding, steady. Safe. The only thing in Morganvale that didn’t flinch away from me.

  Red scars crawled across my skin, faintly warm, as if they were already reacting to the choice I’d made. I clenched my fingers until the heat dulled to a throb.

  The curse never slept. It just waited.

  Below the hill, Morganvale sprawled along the lakeshore. Ancient stone houses leaned against newer buildings that never quite fit, smoke drifting lazily into the afternoon sky. Beyond them stretched the water.

  And at its centre sat the island.

  The Isle of Apples.

  No one said its name aloud. They didn’t have to. The island decided everything. Who could leave. What we were allowed to take. Who was never meant to cross the water at all.

  Tomorrow, the crossing would begin.

  This time, I was old enough to go.

  Fear rippled through me, sharp enough to make the scars flare. Heat surged across my skin, fast and violent, and I sucked in a breath, pressing my hand harder against the tree until the burning eased.

  I couldn’t afford to lose control today.

  Not on my last day.

  A car horn cut through the quiet.

  Down by the ramp, villagers clustered around a vehicle hauling a boat toward the water. Aspirants crowded the shoreline, packs slung over their shoulders, blades and staves catching the light as they showed them off. Their laughter carried uphill, brittle with nerves and excitement.

  Tomorrow, they would cross the lake.

  Not for ceremony. They were crossing for power.

  And if they survived, they would not just get stronger.

  They would get rich.

  I took one last look at the grove.

  Then I turned and started down the path toward home.

  My notebook was already in my hands. Its spine was creased, the pages worn thin from rereading. I flipped to the first story without thinking. The Crown Beyond the Mist. I’d memorised most of it, but I read it anyway. Stories were safer than people.

  I barely made it past the opening lines before something sweeter drifted up on the breeze.

  Warm pastry. Chocolate.

  The bakery had finished its afternoon batch.

  I smiled despite myself. One last detour wouldn’t hurt. One last small victory before everything changed.

  Laughter snapped me out of it.

  Not the good kind.

  Three boys walked the path ahead of me, tall and careless, their voices loud enough that they didn’t bother looking around. Broken branches littered the ground behind them. A kicked-over sign lay half buried in the dirt.

  My shoulders tightened.

  Nick walked at the front.

  “Last day on Earth,” he said loudly, grinning at his friends. “Tomorrow, the gate.”

  I slowed, instinct screaming.

  Further down the path, a girl knelt beneath a tree.

  Dark hair. Green eyes.

  My stomach dropped.

  Nick noticed her at the same time I did.

  He slowed, gaze dragging over her as he stepped closer. “Hey, Celeste. Party tonight. We’ve got beer.”

  She shook her head politely.

  Snickers followed.

  Nick stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her whole.

  My hands began to tingle.

  I knew what that meant.

  And I knew, with sickening certainty, that if he touched her…

  someone was going to get hurt.

  Nick shot his friend a murderous glare and stepped closer to Celeste until she had to lean back to meet his eyes.

  My jaw tightened.

  In all the years I’d known her, I’d never heard Celeste speak. She lived in the quiet places, under trees, out in the fields, tending injured animals with careful hands. We’d always been on the edge of things together. Too strange. Too inconvenient.

  I’d wanted to talk to her for years.

  I never had.

  I was too afraid to touch anyone.

  Oh.

  The grove flashed through my mind. Rough bark under my palms. Bare skin against the tree. I looked down.

  No gloves.

  They didn’t make me safe. They just made accidents less likely. And I’d left them behind.

  “Oh, come on,” Nick said, smirking as he hauled Celeste upright and draped an arm around her shoulders. “In a few days we’ll all be busy, and once I’m studying in the House of Lords…” His grin sharpened. “I’ll be in the perfect position to look after you. Just one drink.”

  Celeste shook her head, panic plain in her eyes.

  Nick’s cronies snorted.

  His smile cracked.

  “What?” he snapped. “You too good for beer?” His face twisted. “Fucking bitch.”

  He grabbed her waist and yanked her closer. Her breath hitched as her feet scraped uselessly against the dirt.

  That was it.

  “Hey!” I shouted as I burst out of the brush. “She said no!”

  They turned together.

  For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

  Then Nick grinned.

  “Well, boys,” he drawled, “look who crawled out of the weeds.”

  “Oh shit,” one of them laughed. “It’s the cursed freak.”

  Nick’s eyes flicked between Celeste and me. The smirk returned. “Careful. I think he’s got a thing for her.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Shut up,” I muttered, stepping closer despite every instinct screaming not to.

  Nick laughed. Then, casually, deliberately, he slid his hand across Celeste’s backside.

  She flinched.

  Something in my gut twisted hard enough to hurt.

  “Stop that!” I shouted.

  “I’ve seen how the freak looks at you!” Nick sneered.

  My hands curled into fists as I closed the distance. “Let her go.”

  Only then did I really register the size difference. Three of them. All taller. All stronger.

  Before, their punches had stayed small. Careful. Under watchful eyes.

  There were no eyes now.

  And they knew it.

  Worse, they knew this was their last chance.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Nick said, grinning without warmth. “Talking to me like that. You homeless, cursed freak.”

  They closed in.

  In the sudden scramble, Celeste slipped free just as Nick lunged. His fist was already moving. I saw it a heartbeat too late.

  Skin met skin.

  His bare knuckles clipped my jaw.

  Nick screamed.

  The blow still snapped my head sideways. I crashed to the ground, stars bursting behind my eyes. Pain detonated across my scars as blood flooded my mouth. But Nick was already staggering back, clutching his hand like he’d thrust it into fire.

  We all froze.

  His knuckles darkened. Skin tightened. Veins bulged as thin red lines twisted outward, burning their way across his hand.

  Scars like mine.

  Alive.

  No one had ever touched me. Let alone hit me with bare hands before.

  “What the hell…” one of the boys whispered, backing away.

  Nick’s jaw locked as he fought the scream tearing out of him. His breath came in sharp, broken gasps. Shock drained from his face, replaced by raw horror.

  Celeste gasped.

  I tried to push myself up. My arms shook, locked, then gave out, dumping me back into the dirt as the world tilted. Shadows loomed closer. Boots scraped forward. The space I’d bought her was already gone.

  Celeste’s eyes flicked between us. My bloodied mouth. Nick’s ruined hand. Fear gave way to understanding, and her face went pale.

  When her gaze met mine, there was no accusation. Just shock. Confusion. And something brittle and terrified.

  “So the rumours were true,” one of them said softly. “He really is cursed.”

  The word hit harder than the punch.

  I stared at Nick’s shaking fingers, the blistered skin, the scars spreading fast. I’d always kept my distance. Always avoided contact.

  Every time the curse struck back, it took something from me. Strength. Breath. Time.

  And now I knew it could take from others too.

  “No wonder they won’t let him through the gate,” another boy scoffed.

  “Don’t touch his bare skin!” Nick snarled, fear snapping into rage. “Just get him!”

  The shift was instant.

  Panic turned into cruelty.

  A boot slammed into my ribs before I could brace. The air tore out of my lungs. I folded with a gasp, only for another kick to land harder, white-hot pain ripping through me.

  “You freak!”

  Nick still cradled his injured hand, the scars spreading across his knuckles mirroring the ones etched into my own skin. He’d touched me for less than a second.

  That was all it took.

  Celeste looked at me one last time.

  She hesitated.

  Just for a breath.

  Then she turned and ran, sprinting toward the village as fast as she could.

  “Ha!” one of them shouted. “See that, Sean? Even she wants nothing to do with you!”

  Another laugh followed. “Do everyone a favour and drown yourself in the lake!”

  Nick paused, panting, then his gaze dropped.

  The notebook lay in the dirt beside me.

  I reached for it. My arm barely moved.

  Nick scooped it up and flipped it open, snorting as he scanned the page.

  “Spirit Gates?” He barked out a laugh. Sharp. Ugly. “You?”

  He crouched low, close enough that I could smell sweat and cheap beer on his breath. “You won’t even make it past the guards.”

  Then he straightened, grin stretching wider. “Actually… I hope you try.”

  The notebook slapped into my face.

  Before I could react, his boot came down hard. My head snapped back, teeth clicking as pain exploded behind my eyes. Another kick followed. Then another.

  They piled in.

  Boots from every direction. Ribs. Spine. Legs. Each impact sending fire through my body. I curled inward, arms locked over my head, making myself as small as I could. It didn’t help.

  Something deeper woke up.

  The scars across my skin burned, not recoiling from the damage but welcoming it. Pain layered over pain, feeding into itself until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

  “Good luck, freak,” Nick spat.

  Time lost its shape.

  Boots came and went. Pain flared, dulled, flared again, until even that began to fade into a heavy, distant ache.

  Eventually, the blows stopped.

  Footsteps dragged away, laughter trailing behind them.

  It took a long moment before my body agreed to move again. Pain answered first. Muscles screamed. Ribs throbbed. My head swam.

  Every breath scraped.

  I spat onto the dirt and watched a thick glob of blood darken the ground.

  I hoped Celeste made it home.

  Looking down made my stomach turn. Dirt and blood were matted into my clothes and skin, streaked across my arms and hands.

  Slowly, carefully, I forced myself upright.

  My clothes tore as I brushed at them. I ignored it and limped down the road toward home. I avoided the main street, slipping instead into a narrow side lane where darkness gathered thick and unbroken. No lanterns. No windows. Fewer questions.

  Urgent voices echoed from the main road.

  Boots. Many of them.

  “They said he’d be this way,” an older man called out.

  My breath caught.

  Boots scraped against stone on the main road. More than one set. A lantern flared, throwing long, searching shadows across the walls.

  I pressed myself flat against the nearest building, heart hammering hard enough to hurt. Pain throbbed through my ribs as I shifted, but I swallowed it down. If they saw me like this, bloody and barely standing, there would be no explaining my way out of it.

  “Check the side streets,” someone said.

  Closer.

  I edged backward, slow and careful, until my shoulder brushed loose stone at the mouth of a narrow service gap. Too tight to be a street. Just a forgotten seam between buildings.

  I hesitated.

  The lantern swung toward me.

  I slipped sideways into the gap and dragged myself in after it, pressing flat against the stone as the light washed over the entrance. Rough rock scraped my skin, and my scars flared hot in protest, but I didn’t make a sound.

  The guards moved on.

  Their voices faded. Boots receded toward the lake.

  I stayed there long after the light was gone, breathing shallow, counting heartbeats until the shaking in my hands finally eased.

  Only then did I move.

  I took the long way home, limping through shadowed alleys and narrow lanes, keeping to the dark where no one bothered to look twice. By the time the hidden doorway finally came into view, night had settled in fully.

  I paused and scanned the street.

  In the dim glow of failing light, the town showed its seams. Ancient stone walls that once defended Morganvale still stood, wedged awkwardly between modern buildings. A dull neon sign drooped over the Port Cutlass, flickering as it advertised affordable computers to no one in particular.

  History and progress, stacked without care.

  I slipped through the hidden door and shut it behind me.

  The notebook landed on the bed with a soft thud. I barely spared it a glance before grabbing a towel. I needed a shower. Badly.

  The mirror almost made me laugh.

  Dirt smeared my face, hiding most of the angry marks on my skin. Aside from the thin trail of blood drying down my chin, I almost looked better this way. The grime even made my grey eyes stand out.

  A scrawny wild animal stared back at me.

  Warm water washed the dirt and blood away. The relief was brief. The deeper pain stayed, settled beneath my skin where the curse lived. Soap cleared the grime easily enough. It did nothing for the scars.

  When I looked again, my face was swollen, one eye darkening with a bruise, my lip split and raw. I sighed and pulled on clean clothes.

  A knock sounded at the front door.

  I turned as it opened, a tall shadow stepping inside. The light caught salt-and-pepper hair and a lined face.

  A man in his late forties stood there, watching me closely.

  “Jerald?”

  He stopped dead.

  One look at me and the colour drained from his face. His jaw locked so hard I heard his teeth grind.

  “Who did this?” he snapped.

  I blinked. “Nice to see you too.”

  He crossed the room in two long strides and caught my chin, angling my head toward the light. His grip was firm, too firm. His thumb hovered close to the scars on my jaw before he noticed and pulled back sharply, like he’d brushed a live ember.

  His eyes dropped to my hands.

  “Where are your gloves?” he said. “You could have killed someone.”

  He straightened, voice dropping low and sharp. “I told you to keep your head down. I told you.”

  “I didn’t fight anyone,” I muttered. “I just got the shit kicked out of me. And I lost ‘em.”

  Something dark flickered behind his eyes. Not anger at me. Something colder, disappointment.

  Then he exhaled, slow and controlled, and released my chin.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said too quickly.

  He didn’t believe me. His gaze lingered, taking inventory. Bruises. Swelling. The way I was favouring my ribs. After a moment, he turned away as if he had to make himself look elsewhere.

  He leaned past me and picked up the notebook from the bed, flipping it open with practised ease.

  “Good,” he said, tone deliberately casual. “You have been reading it.”

  I nodded. “You could have written it a little neater.”

  His fingers tightened briefly on the cover. The old scars across his knuckles shifted as his grip flexed. He glanced down at them, then looked away. A thin grin crept back onto his face, snapping into place like armour.

  “Well,” he said, “unlike my sword, my pen lacks any real might.”

  “Figures,” I said, shrugging.

  For the first time since he walked in, his smile reached his eyes.

  Then it vanished.

  Jerald went to the table and dropped all pretence. “We are leaving tonight.”

  I nodded. “Thought so.”

  “Tomorrow is far too risky. We move under cover of darkness.” His gaze returned to me, sharp and assessing. “Are you well enough to travel?”

  I shrugged, pain flaring at the motion. “What choice do we have.”

  He glanced around the room. “You could hide here. Lay low.”

  “And never find out why I’m like this,” I said. “No. I’m going. Even if I’m half dead.”

  His mouth twitched. “Stubborn. Just like your father.” The hint of humour drained from his face. He glanced toward the door, then back at me, hand tightening once on the strap at his shoulder.

  “Understand this. There’s no margin for error. This is our one shot to get you topside.” His eyes flicked to my hands. “If anyone sees the curse, they’ll call it dark magic. They won’t ask what happened to you. They’ll only see a threat.”

  “I know.”

  He nodded once. “Good. Means your head is still attached.”

  I looked around the room. The space was small and miserable, dust hanging in the corners, but it was mine. Every scrape and stain had a memory tied to it.

  Jerald crossed the room and lifted my old guitar from the corner.

  “It is a shame you cannot bring any of this,” he said. “The other aspirants are hauling half their lives with them.”

  “I saw them loading the boats.”

  He snorted. “Soft. Back when I crossed, we went up with nothing but the clothes we wore and got marched straight into training.”

  “Not everyone wants to join the army,” I said.

  He nodded, the humour gone. “And that is the right choice.”

  There was something bitter in his voice, but he didn’t linger on it. He strummed the guitar once, the worn strings giving a dull, familiar sound, then set it back where it belonged.

  Everything I was fit into these four walls.

  Jerald turned to face me fully, expression set.

  “If we miss tonight, you do not go through at all. And if you touch anyone on the other side,” he added, “they will kill you.”