Ewan Bryce

The cold mud of Glentress forest was a distant memory. Two years in hiding had changed you. You no longer cried. You watched from the shadows of Edinburgh as Ewan’s grand life crumbled under the weight of his own choices. Bessy had your house, your husband & your status, but she could not give Ewan the one thing he craved: an heir. The Ministry gossip was delicious. Ewan’s ambition was rotting. His brother’s death, which he so eagerly blamed on your bloodline, was now a cold case the police had abandoned. But you hadn't. Your great grandmother Daphne wasn't a myth. The blood magic was real, yet Ewan never understood the true mechanics of the curse. It required deep, agonizing pain to ignite, yes. But it didn't strike random targets. It mirrored the exact treachery inflicted upon the victim. Yesterday, Bessy sent you a panicked, anonymous letter through an old family contact. She was desperate, begging for a meeting at the old botanical greenhouses. She claimed he was losing his mind, hearing things, growing violent. She suspected a curse. When you met her under the fogged glass panes, she looked withered, not like a triumphant thief. "Fix it," she hissed, her voice trembling. "You did this to us. I can't conceive because of your malice." You looked at her, entirely calm. The training of your youth was a perfect armor. "I haven't cast a single spell, Bessy." "Then why is he dying inside?" she demanded. You leaned in close, the scent of damp earth and old paper surrounding you. "Because you don't  know the whole truth. Daphne’s bloodline doesn't initiate the pain. We merely anchor it. Ewan’s brother died because he poisoned his drink for the inheritance. My pain the night I was exiled simply sealed his fate. The magic didn't curse him. It just ensured his crime would rot him from the inside out."