The Circle Of Ash

The air tonight tastes of storm and iron. The clouds hang low over the mountains, swollen with unshed rain, while the paths of Iron-Throat Pass tell tales of miners who first traversed these rugged terrains, naming the pass after the resilient echoes of iron ore in the tunnels' throats. Long ago, the scent of sage fires warded off a plague that once threatened our ancestors here. I can hear Thane moving inside, pacing, muttering to himself as he grinds the herbs into dust. He thinks I am asleep, but my body is restless, humming with the quiet dread that comes before something irreversible.

I sit by the window and trace the frost forming on the glass. Each delicate pattern feels like a warning, though I no longer know who it is meant for. The faint scratching noise of Thane's footsteps echoes through the quiet room, breaking the silence with a reassuring rhythm. The curse began three moons ago, spreading like spilled ink beneath my skin. At first, it was only fatigue and a shimmer in my vision. Now it coils around my ribs and tightens whenever I breathe too deeply, each breath joined by the faint flicker of the candle on the sill, dancing as if in response to my growing unease.

Thane refuses to accept it.

He says there is still a way to save me, that he can draw a circle strong enough to keep the curse from devouring my heart. He has always believed in the old ways, in the words buried in brittle scrolls and the songs the priests forgot. I used to love that about him, the way he could speak to the unseen as though it were an old friend.

But tonight, his faith frightens me.

He bursts through the door a few minutes later, dust streaking his dark hair, a wild gleam in his eyes. “It is ready,” he says. “Everything is prepared.”

“You said you would wait until morning.”

“I cannot. The curse deepens while I sleep. I feel it in the air around you.” He kneels before me and takes my hand. His fingers are warm, calloused, smelling faintly of smoke. “Trust me, Elowen. Just this once more.”

I want to. Saints know, I want to. But my reflection in the window looks like a stranger’s, pale and thin, veins glowing faintly beneath the surface. “Thane,” I whisper, “if it fails...”

“It will not fail.”

He says it so firmly that for a moment, I almost believe him.

Outside, lightning flickers across the valley. The storm is moving closer, drawn perhaps by the same pull that has been dragging us toward this night. I close my eyes and rest my head against his shoulder. He hums softly, an old lullaby from his childhood, one he once told me was meant to ward off nightmares.

It is almost funny, in a cruel sort of way. I am the nightmare now, the thing that needs warding.

When he finally stands to leave, I watch him from the window again. He moves down the narrow path toward the clearing, carrying a bundle of candles and herbs. The wind tears at his cloak, scattering the last of the sage smoke into the dark. He looks so certain, so sure of what he is about to do.

I press my palm to the glass, and the frost melts beneath my skin. “Please,” I whisper, though I am not sure who I am asking.

The mountain answers with thunder.

The clearing lies at the edge of the forest where the earth dips toward the riverbed, now swollen from the oncoming storm. The grass glitters with dew and ash. These are remnants of Thane’s earlier attempts. He stands in the centre of it all, sleeves rolled, eyes bright with determination and fear.

Candles circle him, their flames trembling in the wind. The air smells of copper and rain.

I approach quietly, my cloak drawn close. The wind tangles my hair as if trying to pull me back toward the cottage, but I keep walking. Thane doesn’t turn until I’m only a few steps away.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says. His voice cracks. “It’s not safe until the binding is complete.”

“And when has safety ever mattered to us?” I try to smile, but my lips tremble.

He sighs, stepping forward to rest his forehead against mine. “You were meant to stay inside. The ritual draws on the life around it. It will sense your weakness. It might...”

“I know,” I interrupt softly. “But I can’t let you face it alone.”

He swallows hard, then nods. “Stay outside the circle. Whatever happens, do not step across the line.”

He moves back into place, raising his hands to the sky. The air shifts. The wind stops as though the world itself is holding its breath.

The first words he speaks are low and rhythmic, in a language I do not understand but feel deep in my chest. The candles flare, their light stretching high, connecting in threads of gold and red. The circle hums like a heartbeat, and with every pulse, it demands a price. The air is heavy with the knowledge that each flicker of flame consumes not just wax but echoes of life and breath. This ritual is ancient, its power drawn from the very essence of those who dare to wield it. A toll has to be paid, a whisper of life taken for every ounce of magic given, and those who enter this pact must do so willingly, knowing that balance is not a choice but a necessity.

Then, slowly, he lowers his palms to the earth.

The ground ripples.

Symbols bloom in the dirt. Ancient runes twist and shimmer, forming a ring of light around him. At the centre, a dark pulse rises, faint but steady. My stomach turns. I can feel the curse inside me answering, recognizing the magic like a mirror image.

Thane glances at me. “It’s working.”

But I am not sure. My heart feels like it's being tugged by invisible strings, drawn toward the circle despite his warning. The air grows heavy, thick with ozone and whispered voices. Then, unexpectedly, the distant toll of a bell echoes over the valley. It is a bell that belongs to no village nearby, its haunting sound cutting through the thickening storm. The storm is almost upon us now; thunder rumbles in the distance like a warning drum.

He chants louder, his voice raw and shaking. The runes flare brighter. The curse in me writhes like something alive, crawling up my throat, clawing at my lungs. I fall to my knees, choking.

“Elowen!” Thane’s voice cracks. “Stay back!”

“I can’t,” I gasp, clutching my chest. “It’s pulling me.”

And then I see it. The shadow rising from the centre of the circle. Not a shape, not truly, but a distortion, as if the air itself is folding inward. It’s the curse given form, drawn out of me like smoke through a wound.

For one shining moment, I think it’s working.

The pain lifts. I can breathe. I can see the stars breaking through the storm clouds overhead. Thane smiles, and I feel warmth flood my chest where cold had lived for months. The rain tastes fresh on my lips, cool and earthy, a fleeting reminder of solace. I catch Thane's breath, steady and tangible amidst the chaos. One candle wavers briefly, its flame flickering violently before it stabilizes again, a silent omen overshadowed by the momentary clarity. Then the shadow turns.

It looks at him.

Not with eyes, but with awareness. A ripple of intent shifts toward him like a predator scenting blood. The ground cracks. The light falters.

Thane realizes too late what’s happening. "No," he whispers. "No, it’s bound to me."

I scream his name, but the wind swallows it whole.

The circle implodes, light rushing inward. Thane stumbles, his body bending under the force as the shadow surges into him. He gasps once, the sound sharp and human, then the world explodes in white.

When the light fades, I’m lying in the mud, the storm breaking above us in sheets of rain.

Thane stands at the centre of the ruin, motionless. The candles are gone, melted into the earth. The runes are nothing but ash. He turns slowly, and for a heartbeat, I think it’s over. That he’s still himself.

But his eyes are wrong.

They burn with the same dark shimmer that once lived in me.

“Elowen,” he says, his voice distant. “It worked.”

The rain hisses around us. My heart shatters because I understand what he cannot. The ritual saved me, but it did not destroy the curse. It only moved it.

Into him.

I reach for him, but he steps back, shaking his head as if hearing something I cannot. His hands tremble. “I can hold it,” he murmurs. “I can keep it contained.”

“You can’t,” I whisper. “Thane, it will devour you.”

He laughs then, quiet and broken. “Then let it. I’d rather it take me than you.”

Lightning flashes again, and I see his shadow stretch across the ground. It is too long, too sharp, curling at the edges like smoke.

The curse is already inside him.

He turns away before I can speak again, walking toward the forest as the rain thickens into a curtain between us. I want to follow, but my legs refuse. The earth hums beneath me, whispering remnants of his magic.

When the thunder fades, he is gone.

The forest is silent when I find the clearing again, hours later. Rain has soaked the earth, turning the soft moss into a slick, dark carpet. The circle where Thane performed the ritual is gone, erased by the storm, or perhaps by the magic itself. I do not know which. My knees sink into the mud as I kneel where he stood, staring at the wet earth, expecting some sign, some trace of him left behind.

The wind carries his voice, faint but unmistakable. “Elowen,” it whispers. “I am here.”

I clutch my cloak tighter, shivering in the cold. It is impossible, but I know it is true. The magic that saved me did not vanish—it took him instead. Thane is gone from this world, replaced by something else, tethered to the ritual he created to protect me. I can feel him everywhere at once. His presence hums in the rain, in the moss, in the scent of wet herbs.

I sit in the mud, unable to move, unable to breathe properly. The grit and wet earth cling stubbornly beneath my fingernails, a reminder of the depths to which I've sunk. The guilt presses against my chest like a living thing. Every breath I take is borrowed from him. Every heartbeat is his sacrifice. Above, a bird attempts a song, its notes sharp and off-key, disrupting the heavy silence like a thin strand of sorrow. I should be terrified. I should cry until I am hollow. But I cannot. The warmth of his voice, the memory of his hand, holds me together more than fear ever could.

I wander back toward the village with wet shoes and a heavy heart. The townspeople smile as I pass, relieved to see me alive. They do not know what I have seen, what I have lost. They speak of miracles, whispering tales of divine intervention to ward off the darkness. I hear snippets of conversation as I pass, fragments of their own superstitions: whispers about strange lights in the forest, and ominous murmurs that question whether what occurred was truly a blessing or something else entirely. I nod politely, pretending it is just that. No one suspects the truth. The curse did not vanish. It lives, and Thane holds it in his place.

At night, I sit by the window of my cottage, staring at the mountains where the ritual took place. I whisper to the wind, hoping it carries my words to him. “I am safe,” I say. “Thank you.”

Sometimes I think I feel his hand brush mine, just for a moment, like he is reminding me that he is still here. Other times, I hear his laughter in the rustle of the leaves, sharp and fleeting. The world is quieter now, but it is not empty. He is bound to it in a way I cannot touch, yet I feel him in every gust, every tremor of the earth.

I cannot undo what happened. I cannot bring him back. But I can honor him. I return to the clearing each day, tending what remains of the ritual site. Candles burn where the circle once glowed, though occasionally, an unsettling flicker catches my attention. Herbs grow in neat rows, arranged in the patterns Thane drew, but sometimes I notice one plant struggling to thrive, a silent omen whispering of unrest. I repeat the incantations quietly, softly, not only to keep him near but also to discern the subtle warnings the site might offer. These small disturbances hint at a presence that might not remain bound as time weaves its path forward.

The villagers think I am preserving a tradition. I think I am preserving him.

Sometimes, when the wind rises just right, I hear him calling my name. I answer softly. The sound drifts across the forest, echoes over the river. He is gone, yet still present. Alive, yet not. A part of him remains with me, tethered by magic, by love, by everything that he was willing to give.

The storm has passed, but the air still carries the tension of it. The mountains are quiet now, except for the occasional sigh of wind through the trees. I sit, hands folded in my lap, staring at the place where he gave everything to keep me alive. I will never forget the warmth of him, the sacrifice he made, the way he loved me enough to let the magic take him instead.

And so, each day, I return to the circle. I light the candles. I whisper the words. Candle smoke curls into dawn, the soft tendrils mingling with the morning mist. In those moments, his presence feels steady and soft, reminding me that love can endure, even when it costs everything.

I am alive because he was brave. I am here because he was willing. And though the world is quieter, lonelier, I carry him with me always.