All Chapters of Chains Of The Heart: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

The air in the chamber felt thinner, as if the cave itself had leaned in to listen. Nathan broke the silence first. “Were they trying to curse Damian… somehow?” He didn’t shout it. He didn’t need to. The name carried weight all on its own. Ezekiel slowly lifted his head from the runes and shook it. “No.” Alessio crossed his arms, jaw tight, eyes dark. “Then what?” Ezekiel let out a slow breath that sounded less like air and more like something dragged up from deep water. “The curse does not need to be cast,” he said quietly. “Because it already exists.” Nathan frowned. “What do you mean?” Ezekiel turned to him fully now. His gaze was steady, but there was something unsettled — almost pitying — in it. “I mean it lives in their blood.” Nathan glanced sharply at Alessio. “What is he talking about?” He was staring at Ezekiel instead, expression grim, jaw tight in a way that suggested this was not new information — only unwanted. Ezekiel tilted his head slightly. “You know ab

The truth of the curse settled over them like the first flakes of snow—soft at first, then relentless. Nathan sat motionless for a long moment, letting the weight of it sink into his bones. Then he stood. "Alessio." His voice was quiet but firm. "Walk with me." Alessio's eyes narrowed slightly, but he followed without question. They moved a short distance from the others, far enough that the wind carried their words away before they could reach unwelcome ears. Nathan turned to face him. "I'm going back in." Alessio's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—a subtle tensing, the way a man braces for impact. "Absolutely not." "I'm not asking permission." Nathan's voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "Ezekiel is in there. Alone. Chasing something we couldn't see. If we leave him, we're condemning him to whatever's waiting in the dark." "He chose to run," Alessio said flatly. "Prophets do that. Sometimes they come back. Sometimes they don't

The cold had settled into Ivy's bones by the time the cave mouth finally stirred. She had been pacing for what felt like hours—back and forth, back and forth, ignoring Alessio's steady gaze tracking her every movement. The snow clung to her hair, her shoulders, the folds of her cloak, but she barely noticed. "Nathan's been in there too long," she muttered for the dozenth time. Alessio, standing like a monument to patience beside her, didn't bother responding with words. He simply reached out and gently turned her by the shoulders, guiding her to a nearby supply crate. "Sit," he said. Ivy opened her mouth to argue. "Sit first," Alessio continued calmly, "complain second. You can do both from a stationary position." “You can monitor the perimeter sitting down,” he told her evenly. “Your eyes won’t fall out because your knees bend.” “I’m not fragile,” she muttered. “Didn’t say you were. I said you’re freezing.” She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Because she was. Mise

The Mercer estate slept under a blanket of snow, quiet and still. Rowan did not. He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his breath coming in short, uneven pulls. The room was warm—healers had insisted on keeping the fires high, the blankets thick—but he felt cold. Deep cold. The kind that came from inside. It started as a whisper. A pressure behind his ribs. A weight on his chest. Not physical—something else. Something worse. Then it grew. Grief. Guilt. A sorrow so vast it had no edges, no bottom, no end. It poured through the bond like water through a cracked dam, and Rowan couldn't stop it, couldn't block it, couldn't breathe around it. Damian. He knew it was Damian. Had to be. The bond between them—that cursed, unwanted, irreversible thing—was a live wire, and something had just electrified it. Rowan gasped, curling onto his side, fingers digging into the sheets. What happened? He didn't know. Couldn't know. No one had told him anything—not really. Bits and pieces, ye

The Cross estate had become a fortress of hushed voices and hurried footsteps. Ezekiel had been carried to the finest guest chamber, the one reserved for visiting dignitaries and, on rare occasions, people who might accidentally summon something ancient if left unattended. The healers had descended upon him like a flock of anxious birds, their hands glowing with diagnostic magic, their faces growing more confused with every passing minute. Lady Maria stood in the corridor outside, arms folded, watching through the partially open door. Her expression was unreadable, but her posture said everything: she had survived fire, betrayal, and the collapse of her house. A prophet having a mysterious episode was not going to be the thing that broke her. The lead healer—a woman named Elara who had served the Cross family for three decades—finally emerged, wiping her hands on a cloth that did nothing to hide her bafflement. "Lady Maria," she began, inclining her head. Maria didn't move. "Repor