POV: Henry
It happens years later.
Not in a rush of panic or rumor, not carried by bells or shouted through streets, but the way all true devastation arrives—quietly, disguised as ordinary news spoken by someone who doesn’t know it will split your life cleanly in two.
I am in a border town, far from any court, seated at a table scarred by knives and time, when a trader mentions it between mouthfuls of stew.
“—the prince finally put an end to her,” he says casually. “The witch. Cordelia.”
My hand stills around the cup.
“The witch?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady.
The trader nods, uninterested. “Tried to bind him, they say. Tried to claim power that wasn’t hers. He killed her himself.”
The room tilts.
I breathe in slowly, carefully, the way I once taught her to breathe when her magic ran too hot. The habit remains even now, muscle memory shaped by years that refuse to stay buried.
“And the child?” I ask.
The trader shrugs. “Rejected. Cast aside. Not royal blood, after all.”
Not royal blood.
The words land with brutal precision.
I push my chair back and stand, leaving coins on the table untouched by calculation or courtesy. The world outside feels distant, muted, as if I’m moving through water instead of air. Every step echoes too loudly in my ears.
Cordelia is dead.
The truth settles without resistance, heavy and final. I knew this day would come. I knew the kind of man Sebastian was, the kind of end power always demands when it feels threatened.
But knowing does not blunt the impact.
I walk until the town dissolves behind me and the road stretches out again, familiar and unforgiving. The amulet still rests against my chest, worn smooth by years of touch, its magic quiet and faithful. It did its job.
She never found me again.
My chest tightens—not with relief, but with something colder.
She died believing she had sealed every door.
She was wrong.
I think of her often as I travel.
Not the woman the court whispered about. Not the witch they feared or the lover they accused. I remember the girl who learned to read by lantern light in places no one was supposed to go. The woman who learned restraint because chaos frightened her more than cruelty ever could.
I remember the night she told me she was pregnant.
The way her voice didn’t shake even as the truth tore through us both.
I remember leaving because staying would have destroyed us in ways power never could.
Cordelia chose survival.
She always did.
And in the end, it killed her anyway.
***
It takes months to find him.
The child.
My son.
I do not announce myself. I do not ask questions openly. I follow rumors the way I once followed magic—indirectly, patiently, through absence and avoidance. A boy living on the edges of protection. A child moved quietly from place to place, never allowed to settle.
A mistake the crown wants forgotten.
When I finally find him, it is not in a palace.
It is in a quiet estate far from the capital, surrounded by trees old enough to remember kingdoms rising and falling without caring. The house is modest, guarded not by soldiers but by silence.
I watch from the treeline at first.
He is in the garden, kneeling in the dirt, hands pressed into the soil as if listening to something beneath it. He looks to be around six—too thin, eyes sharp and wary in a way children should not be.
The ground around his fingers trembles.
Just slightly. My breath catches. There it is. The curse. Not raging. Not uncontrolled. Waiting.
A woman calls his name from the doorway—William—and the sound of it lands in my chest like a blow. He looks up, irritation flashing briefly across his face before he masks it.
“I’m coming,” he calls back.
He stands, brushing dirt from his hands, and for a moment the sunlight hits him just right.
He has her eyes.
Not the color—the expression. The intensity. The way the world seems to exist as something to be negotiated rather than accepted.
My knees threaten to give out.
I grip the trunk of a nearby tree, grounding myself the way I always have. Years of restraint do not vanish just because the truth stands ten paces away, alive and breathing.
He is mine.
There is no spell required to know it. No calculation. No doubt.
Cordelia was right about one thing.
This child ties us forever.
I do not approach him that day.
I watch. I learn his rhythms. I note the way he reacts to sound, to people, to the subtle pressure of the world around him. I see the care taken to keep him unnoticed, the fear that coils beneath every protective gesture.
They know what he is.
They are afraid of what he might become.
That fear feels familiar.
I leave before dusk, heart heavy but resolved.
The curse continues.
***
When I return weeks later, I do not come as a ghost.
I walk up the path openly, hands empty, posture unthreatening. The woman at the door stiffens when she sees me, suspicion sharpening her features.
“I’m here for the boy,” I say calmly.
Her jaw tightens. “You’ll leave.”
“Eventually,” I agree. “But not before I speak to him.”
“You have no claim—”
“I have every claim,” I interrupt gently. “Just not the kind your world recognizes.”
William appears behind her, curiosity warring with caution. His gaze fixes on me, assessing, searching.
“You’re not from here,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “Neither are you.”
Something flickers in his eyes at that.
The woman hesitates, then steps aside reluctantly. William moves forward, slow and deliberate, stopping a few feet away from me.
“What do you want?” he asks.
The directness stuns me.
I lower myself to one knee, bringing us to eye level. “To make sure you’re not alone.”
His brow furrows. “I’m not.”
“I know,” I say. “But you will be.”
The honesty does not frighten him. It steadies him.
“Who are you?” he asks.
I inhale, feeling the amulet warm faintly against my chest, as if acknowledging that this is the moment it was waiting for.
“My name is Henry,” I say. “I knew your mother.”
His breath hitches.
“You did,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“What was she like? Before me?” he asks.
The question pierces deeper than any blade.
“She was dangerous,” I answer truthfully. “And brilliant. And very afraid of being powerless.”
William studies my face intently. “She was a witch.”
“Yes,” I say. “And she loved you.”
The warmth stirs around him at that, subtle but unmistakable, answering emotion the way magic always does.
He doesn’t run. He doesn’t cry. He takes a step closer.
The curse recognizes its lineage.
For the first time since Cordelia walked away believing she had sealed every fate, something shifts.
Not the end. Not redemption. Continuation.
I stand slowly, heart pounding, and extend my hand—not in command, not in claim, but in invitation. William looks at it for a long moment. Then he takes it.
The contact hums, quiet and electric, binding past to future without ceremony or crown. Cordelia is dead. But her curse lives on. And so does her son.