“No,” Ozerin gritted, his voice a raw, animal sound. The Sorrow-relic, a shard of pure, distilled light, lay forgotten in the ash at his feet. He scooped her up, cradling her close, ignoring the searing heat radiating from her wound, ignoring the ominous creak of the crumbling vault. Every instinct screamed at him to find a way, to undo this, to sever the tether of death tightening around her. He glanced at the dagger still embedded in her, its black sheen devouring the ambient light. “Malek!” he roared, a guttural challenge echoing through the collapsing chamber. Malek, his face etched with a cruel satisfaction, slowly advanced, his own blade of dark glass held low. “Such a shame, Vaskoi. You truly believed you could outsmart fate. Your past self ensured this outcome. A suitable end for the woman who harbored a soul too pure for this city.” Ozerin didn’t dignify him with a response. His gaze was fixed on Ruzena’s face, already growing pallid, the ash-patterns on her skin deepening to an obsidian hue. He had no time for Malek, no time for vengeance, only time for her. He spotted a gaping fissure in the wall, blasted open by the recent explosions, leading to a precarious stairwell. “Iliya!” he shouted, his voice strained as he began to climb, each step rattling loose more debris. Below, Iliya, covered in soot, parried a lunging Zal hound with his reinforced staff, its snarling maw snapping inches from his face. He’d heard Ozerin’s roar, seen Ruzena fall. His jaw tensed as he planted his boots in the grit. He couldn't follow them, not yet. Not with this horde of creatures, drawn by the raw emotional energy of the collapsing structure, blocking their escape. “Go! I’ll hold them!” he yelled back, slamming the blunt end of his staff into another creature’s head, sending it sprawling. The battle below intensified, a cacophony of snarls, shattering glass, and Iliya’s fierce, desperate grunts. Ozerin clambered upwards, Ruzena a dead weight in his arms, the black veins on her skin now a roadmap of demise, reaching her temple. The air grew thinner, laced with the metallic tang of ruin. He burst onto the Conservatory’s highest rooftop, a jagged expanse of crumbling gargoyles and shattered spires. The mist, thick and oppressive, swirled around them, obscuring the world below. The radiant Sorrow-relic clattered against the slate by his boot, snagged in the folds of his cloak. It thrummed with a low, resonant hum, its light fighting back the encroaching gloom. “Just a little longer, my heart,” Ozerin murmured, pressing his forehead to Ruzena’s. Her breath was shallow, ragged, her body trembling with internal tremors. The ash-brand on her chest, once a mark, was now a vortex, drawing her essence inward. He could feel it, a chilling emptiness growing within her, the curse devouring her soul particle by particle. He knew, with a certainty that pierced his core, that she had mere moments left. His eyes swept the rooftop. No shelter, no escape. Only the open sky and the churning mist. Then, a figure emerged from the swirling fog, stepping onto the rooftop with unnerving calm. Malek. His face set into a cruel sneer, his dark gaze fixed on the glowing relic. “Fool,” he hissed, his voice slicing through the air. “You cannot escape your destiny, nor hers. The prophecy dictates it. The curse will claim her, and her sacrifice will power the city for generations.” He began to raise his glass blade, aiming for the Relic, for Ruzena, for Ozerin. Ozerin didn’t even glance at him. His gaze was locked on Ruzena’s face, on the last vestiges of life fading from her eyes. He knew what he had to do. The memory of his past self’s cruel design, his own calculated sacrifice, meant nothing now. Only *her* survival mattered. He picked up the Sorrow-relic, its cool light cutting through the soot caked on his fingers. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Ozerin whispered to Ruzena, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “To be free.” He positioned the Relic over his own sternum, directly over his heart. Malek, realizing his intent, let out a cry of disbelief and lunged forward, his blade sweeping in a deadly arc. But Ozerin was faster. With a surge of desperate strength, he drove the Sorrow-relic into his own chest. The light flared, blindingly white, then erupted into a maelstrom of black and crimson. A searing, agonizing pain ripped through Ozerin. It was not the pain of a physical wound, but the raw, unadulterated essence of Ruzena’s curse, tearing itself from her soul. Years of fabricated grief, the echo of her public humiliation, and the despair of her abandonment rushed into him like lye. Her ash-brand, once a mark of death on her, visibly detached, a swirling vortex of black smoke, and plunged into Ozerin’s chest, into the very core of his being. The relic, embedded in him, glowed with an unholy union of light and shadow. He screamed, a sound torn from the deepest reaches of his soul, a sound of unimaginable suffering. His vision swam. He felt every shard of the curse, every splinter of her broken spirit, become his own. His heart, the very organ that had once beat with such ruthless certainty, fractured under the immense pressure. A violent tremor wracked his body. He coughed, a thick, viscous black liquid bubbling up from his mouth, staining his lips, his chin. His blood was turning to ash, to the very essence of the Zal. Malek stumbled back, stunned by the impossible spectacle. “Impossible,” he breathed. “The Relic cannot… it was not meant for a living transfer…” But Ozerin stood, swaying precariously, Ruzena still clutched in his arms. The black veins, which moments ago had threatened to consume her, now crawled across his own skin, spiderwebbing across his chest, up his neck, into his temples. He felt the curse, a cold, empty void, settling into his being, replacing his very life force. He had absorbed it all. Every last fragment. Ruzena stirred, a soft gasp escaping her lips. The pallor on her face lessened, the black patterns receded. Her eyes fluttered open, clear and bright, free of the shadow that had haunted them. She looked at Ozerin, truly looked at him, and for the first time since the altar, saw beyond the deception, beyond the pain. Saw the man who had just ripped apart his own soul to save hers. He was dying, she knew it. She could feel the absence of the curse, the lightness in her being, a terrifying peace that came at an unbearable cost. Ozerin’s grip on her loosened. He looked down at her, his lips still stained black, a genuine, peaceful smile spreading across his face, a smile utterly devoid of his characteristic coldness. “You’re free,” he whispered, his voice thin, reedy, but filled with an emotion she had never heard from him. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, were now soft, unfocused, reflecting the swirling mist. His body, infused with the overwhelming power of the curse, grew heavier, leaning back. Then, with a final, shuddering breath, Ozerin Vaskoi toppled backward, off the gargoyle-lined precipice, into the deadly mist below.

Transfer of Sorrow