Cursed With Immortality

The mountain wind howled against the rocks, cold and sharp like a thousand whispers. I sat there, staring at the valley below — the same valley that held the village I’d just left. My hands trembled, still smeared with blood that wasn’t mine.

The voice had lied.

Or worse — it had abandoned me.

I pulled a dagger I took from one of the soldiers. Its edge glinted pale in the moonlight. Without a thought, I turned it toward my chest.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I muttered. Then I drove it in.

The steel sank deep. For a moment, I felt it — the pain, the heat of blood spilling across my fingers. Then it was gone. The wound sealed as if it had never been. Not even a scar remained.

I stared, breathing hard. Then I tried again — deeper this time. Nothing.

I screamed and hurled the dagger down the slope, where it clattered against stone.

So I tried other ways.

I leapt from the cliff — the rocks below shattered under me, but my bones did not.

I drowned myself in the mountain stream until my lungs b