Chapter 14: Cursed Contracts and Other Romantic Gestures
Lucien had been cursed twelve times in his life. Most of them were minor—a speaking wart, a bout of reverse aging (he briefly turned eight and ran a crime ring in the garden), one unfortunate incident involving enchanted socks that screamed every time he lied.
But this curse—this one was official.
He could feel it the moment they returned from Starcross Hollow. The air at the manor was heavier. The shadows followed too closely. Even the portraits of ancestors seemed to lean in when he passed.
Maribel noticed it first.
"Your reflection's flickering again," she said casually, handing him a cup of steaming root tea as they walked through the manor's crumbling library.
Lucien glanced at the mirror. His reflection blinked a half-second late, smiled with too many teeth, and whispered something in Abyssal.
"How charming," he muttered. "Possession or long-lost twin?"
Maribel's eyes narrowed. "We've been marked."
He gave her a look. "Again? We're starting to collect these like trading cards."
This wasn't new. Since the Trials, something had shifted. Their love had become more powerful—yes—but so had the attention it attracted. Forces that had been content to slumber now stirred. Whispers filled the halls. Candles lit themselves in warning.
Still, Lucien tried to downplay it. "Could just be a magical parasite. A minor haunting. A grudge-wraith in denial."
"Nope," Maribel said, standing. "I'm getting the Grimoire of Rude Binding. We're handling this now."
An hour later, their drawing room resembled a wizard's version of couples therapy: a summoning circle drawn in chalk, a flaming basin of scented salt, and a jar labeled "Emergency Anti-Curse Pickles."
Lucien sipped wine. "If this goes wrong, I'd like to be cremated into glitter."
Maribel tightened the circle. "If this goes wrong, I'm banishing your soul to a plane made entirely of annoying bard songs."
"Ah, so the Feywild."
With a final flick of her fingers, the summoning began.
The flames in the basin rose.
The air grew cold.
And then… a tall figure in crimson appeared, draped in shifting silk, their eyes glowing like opals dipped in secrets.
The demon bowed with flair. "Hello, lovebirds. Who rang?"
Maribel held firm. "State your name, contract, and reason for haunting my boyfriend's eyebrows."
The demon chuckled. "A pleasure. I am Veyxith, Envoy of Entangled Desires and Arbitrator of Romantic Injustices. I was assigned to your souls when you broke the Pact of Lonely Fates."
Lucien frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
Veyxith conjured a scroll longer than the table. "You see, centuries ago, a prophecy was carved into the bones of a forgotten god: 'The blood of the undead and the magic of light shall never entwine, lest the world unravel in scandal.' By surviving the Trials, you've… violated clause twelve."
Maribel crossed her arms. "That's absurd. We didn't sign anything."
"You didn't have to," Veyxith said. "Your existence did. Fate's bureaucracy is very thorough. Love across planes? Illegal. Forbidden. Deliciously chaotic."
Lucien snorted. "And what's the punishment? Eternal separation? Soul taxes?"
Veyxith smiled like a knife. "You get to stay together... but the universe will try to end you every three days."
Silence.
Then Maribel said, "Typical."
The next few days were, to quote Lucien, "a mildly aggressive disaster."
Day One: Their breakfast spoons tried to kill them.
Day Two: A portal opened in the linen closet and released a poltergeist with performance anxiety.
Day Three: Maribel was temporarily turned into a llama wearing a corset.
Through it all, they endured.
Mostly by working together.
Lucien built a magical perimeter using sarcasm and runes powered by regret. Maribel rewrote half a dozen warding spells into something stronger—woven with music, laughter, and the smell of coffee (which seemed to confuse minor demons).
But the final straw came when their favorite book, Love Spells and Lies I've Told My Exes, burst into flame mid-sentence.
Maribel sighed. "Okay. No more tolerating. We're fighting fate."
Lucien blinked. "You mean like… overthrowing destiny?"
"Yes," she said. "We're declaring war on prophecy. With charm, wit, and possibly an army of vengeful pastry spirits."
"... I'm in."
To do that, they needed help.
So they traveled—first to the Mountains of Mirth, where a retired oracle told them to "invest in better bedding" and then died laughing. Then to the Archives of Unwritten Tomorrows, where the head librarian tried to bite Lucien and accused Maribel of being "too shiny."
Eventually, they reached the Temple of Possibilities—a crumbling ruin balanced between time, space, and bad metaphors. Inside lived the Weaver: a being who spun all potential futures into thread and sometimes turned annoying guests into yarn.
Lucien bowed low. "Great Weaver, we humbly seek to alter our fate."
The Weaver, an ancient creature of thread and eye sockets, hissed. "Interplanar lovers again? You people never quit."
Maribel stepped forward. "We don't want to destroy the world. We just want to live in it. Together."
The Weaver gazed at them both, and for a moment, the air shimmered.
"Very well," it rasped. "One chance. Survive the Gauntlet of Unraveled Futures. Prove your bond stronger than the strands of destiny."
Lucien muttered, "This is why we don't take romantic vacations."
The Gauntlet was exactly as terrifying as it sounded.
Trial One: They relived their worst memories—alone. For Lucien, it was watching his mother die in a magical duel. For Maribel, it was being told as a child that she was "too much magic, not enough control."
They came out of it crying, but holding each other.
Trial Two: They were forced to fight twisted versions of themselves. Lucien faced a version of him who didn't fall in love—cold, cruel, a tyrant. Maribel's twin was arrogant, reckless, alone.
They didn't defeat them.
They embraced them.
Accepted their flaws. Owned their fears.
Trial Three: The final door.
Nothing inside but a question.
Would you sacrifice your love to save the world?
Lucien didn't hesitate.
"No."
Maribel added, "We'll change the world instead."
The Weaver appeared once more, eyes glowing.
"Then you have passed."
It raised one bony hand.
A thread was snipped.
A prophecy undone.
They returned home different.
Exhausted. Empowered. Bound not by fate—but by choice.
And that night, as they lay in each other's arms beneath a sky that no longer watched them with suspicion, Maribel whispered, "I don't need a perfect ending."
Lucien smiled. "Just a ridiculous, magical one?"
She nodded. "Exactly."
And he held her close, already dreaming of the chaos they'd cause next.