Rain fell in sheets, turning the city into a monochrome blur. Eira Vale stood beneath the rusted awning of her herbal shop, smoke curling from her fingertips as she burned a clove bundle to ward off a headache that had nothing to do with the weather.
The pulse of the city was too loud tonight.
Magic stirred.
She shouldn't have felt it — not here, not in the sealed veins of this modern world where magic was buried beneath concrete and forgotten. But it prickled against her skin like static. A warning. Or a summons.
With a sigh, she crushed the smoldering herbs beneath her boot and stepped out into the night.
The alley behind her shop was a forgotten crack between buildings, thick with shadows and the scent of rot. She didn't expect to find anything — just a false alarm, maybe a spirit brushing too close. But then she saw him.
A man, slumped against the brick wall, barely conscious. His white shirt was soaked in blood, and not just from the rain. A long gash split across his ribs, still bleeding sluggishly. But that wasn't what made her breath hitch.
It was the magic wrapped around him like smoke.
Old magic.
Fae magic.
"Shit," she whispered.
She crouched beside him. He wasn't human — not exactly. His features were too sharp, too perfect. Raven-black hair clung to his forehead, and when his eyes fluttered open, they were silver. Not metaphorically. Literally. Silver like moonlight trapped in glass.
"You... smell like fire," he rasped.
"And you're bleeding all over my city," she replied, reaching into her coat for a charm stone.
"Don't touch me—" he tried to pull back, but winced, collapsing into her arms instead.
"I wasn't asking."
She pressed the charm to his chest, whispering an incantation under her breath. Light flared briefly. The wound slowed its bleeding. Not healed — she wasn't that generous — but enough to keep him alive.
"Who are you?" she asked, inspecting the strange markings tattooed across his collarbone. They glowed faintly under her spell. She didn't recognize the language — not fully — but one word pulsed like a heartbeat through the runes.
Cursed.
He didn't answer. His eyes closed again, lashes wet with rain. She cursed softly, realizing she couldn't leave him here. Not with that kind of spellwork pulsing from him. Someone had marked him — bound him with old-world magic that should've died out centuries ago.
She dragged him into her shop.
---
Eira laid him on the table she normally used to sort herbs. His body was cold. She unbuttoned his soaked shirt, trying not to stare too long at the lean muscle beneath. She was a witch, not a saint.
"What are you?" she muttered, running her fingers lightly over the runes. They pulsed beneath her touch, and for a moment, her vision blurred. A flicker of trees. Screams. Fire. A silver crown broken in two.
Then nothing.
She yanked her hand back.
"Bad idea," came a weak voice.
She looked down to find him awake again, eyes sharp now despite the pain.
"I could say the same to you," she said, arms crossed. "You're walking around with a curse that hasn't been seen since the fall of the fae kingdoms."
"You know about the kingdoms?" he asked, voice low and laced with suspicion.
"I read."
"I don't need a witch."
Eira raised a brow. "You're in my shop. Half-naked. Bleeding. I'd say you're not in the position to be picky."
He gave a faint chuckle — more a wheeze, really — but didn't argue.
"My name is Kaelen," he said after a pause. "Prince of Raventhorn."
She blinked. That kingdom was legend. Destroyed five hundred years ago. Its heir — vanished. "You're joking."
"I wish I were."
Eira stared at him for a long moment. Either he was insane, or the stories she grew up with were more truth than myth. A cursed fae prince in her shop. Just her luck.
"And what do you want from me, Your Highness?" she asked, tone dry.
His silver eyes burned into hers. "I want the curse broken. And I think you're the only one left who can do it."
Eira should have laughed. Should've told him to get out, to find another fool. But something about the way he looked at her — like he'd already lost everything, like he'd rather die than hope again — made her pause.
"Fine," she said slowly. "But curses like this… they don't break without a price."
"I've already paid most of it," he said, voice hollow. "I just haven't died yet."
She met his gaze, and for the first time in years, her magic stirred not from duty or defense — but from something deeper. Something dangerous.
A spark.
And sparks, Eira knew, could burn.
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