Caelen woke to the ache of a stranger's heartbreak.
It wasn't his own—no, his heart was quiet, a still pond in a world of storms. But somewhere, someone's chest had caved under betrayal, and the pain clawed its way into him, sharp as thorns. He pressed a hand to his ribs, breathing slow, willing the feeling to fade.
It didn't. It never did.
The curse was always there.
The village of Hearthollow stirred outside his window, a sleepy cluster of stone cottages nestled in Aerthalin's green cradle. Dawn painted the thatched roofs gold, but Caelen saw only shadows. A mother's grief for a fevered child. A farmer's despair over wilted crops. Each hurt was a thread, and he was the loom, weaving their sorrows into his bones.
He was twenty-three, but his eyes carried centuries. Soft brown, like earth after rain, they held a kindness that made people pause—then look away. No one could bear his gaze for long. Not when they knew what he felt.
"Caelen, you're up?"
Old Marren's voice rasped from the yard. The blacksmith's hands were gnarled, his back bent, but his pain was louder than his words—a dull throb of years spent hammering iron and burying dreams.
"I'm here," Caelen called, pulling on a worn tunic.
He stepped outside, the morning air cool against his skin. Marren stood by the well, bucket in hand, his weathered face tight with something unspoken.
"Boy down the lane's hurt," Marren said. "Fell from a cart. They're asking for you."
Caelen's stomach twisted. Not because he didn't want to help, but because he knew what it would cost. Every wound he eased, every tear he dried, sank deeper into him. A gift, they called it. But it was a magic bound to sorrow—a healer's curse, born the day his mother died screaming his name into the stars.
He'd been five, too young to understand why her pain never left him.
"I'll go," he said, because he always did.
The boy, Taren, lay on a cot in a dim cottage, his leg bent wrong. His mother hovered, eyes red, her fear a blade in Caelen's chest.
He knelt beside the boy, forcing a smile. "Hey, little wolf. Let's fix you up."
Taren whimpered, but his trust was a flicker of warmth. Caelen placed a hand on the broken leg, letting the curse do its work. Pain surged—sharp, white-hot, as if his own bones snapped. He gritted his teeth, guiding the boy's leg straight, feeling the fracture knit under his touch. Taren's sobs eased, but Caelen's breath hitched, the agony now his to carry.
"Thank you," the mother whispered, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. No one ever did.
Back in his cottage, Caelen sank onto his bed, the boy's pain still burning. He closed his eyes, and a memory rose unbidden: his mother, her hands cupping his face, her voice a lullaby.
"You're too kind for this world, my love. But don't let it break you."
He wondered, not for the first time, if she'd known what he would become.
And if kindness alone would be enough to survive what was coming.