Tangled in Magic

COWARD

The air in the town square felt heavier than usual. Dust danced in the wind’s bite, as if echoing the tension hanging over the gathered crowd.

Aren stood tall in the middle of the dry, cracked ground. The wind tugged at his training cloak, revealing a body still marked by wounds and a spirit buried beneath countless doubtful stares.

Inside his chest, his heart pounded violently, yet his face remained flawless. His eyes stared forward, cold and unshaken.

From the opposite side, Bram walked in with confidence. His tall, broad frame, long messy hair tied back carelessly, and that smug grin he’d worn all day had never left his face.

Behind them, the crowd's whispers grew louder.

“I’m betting on Bram. That kid won’t last a single blow.”

“But they say he caught a witch, right?”

“Just rumors. There’s no way he could’ve…”

Aren took a single step forward, and the murmurs fell silent. He lifted his face, staring directly at Bram. Their eyes met in the air thick with tension.

Then suddenly, Aren’s voice rang out, slicing through every assumption and silencing the crowd.

“Yes. You’re right, Bram,” he said. “I’m just a lucky coward.”

Some frowned. Bram crossed his arms, smirking wider.

“I didn’t catch a witch that night. I fainted, and when I came to, someone had already pulled me out. The one you saw with me

wasn’t a witch. I don’t deserve any praise.”

Silence dropped like a blade. No cheers. No boos. Even Bram was momentarily speechless.

Aren took a breath and turned around. He walked away without looking back, passing countless confused and disappointed eyes.

But his steps were steady, like someone who had chosen the weight he would carry.

Among the crowd, Ozra stared at his back.

She didn’t expect it. A golden chance to be praised and respected—thrown away just like that.

She jogged to catch up with him. “You’re an i***t,” she muttered angrily, “humiliating yourself in front of everyone? You could’ve lied. They would’ve believed you.”

Aren chuckled softly, almost mocking himself. “No need to lie. Everyone already knows I’m a coward. It’s no surprise.”

Ozra went silent. She glanced at his face from the side. There were scars not from battlefields, but from something deeper. Something sleep couldn’t heal.

She watched his back, wondering to herself, “Why would my power choose a vessel like this? Someone so honest… and so weak. Or

is that why?”

Her hand slowly lifted. In the air, she tried to summon even a flicker of the power that once tore the sky asunder.

Her eyes focused, her heart reached into the man’s body.

Nothing happened. Silence. Emptiness.

Ozra let out a quiet sigh. Her gaze fell to Aren’s footsteps moving steadily forward. Then she jogged up beside him.

“So, where are we going now, coward?” she asked, half teasing.

Aren gave a crooked smile. “I need to train. You can go—”

“Too late. I’m a drifter, remember?”

Aren smiled quietly at her words. He didn’t respond, only continued walking toward the high hill overlooking the village.

They arrived not long after. From up there, the rooftops looked like a golden tapestry under the fading sunlight.

The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of earth and leaves, as the sky slowly changed, brushing the day with shades of orange.

Ozra stood at the edge of the cliff, staring at the wide village.

Something stirred inside her. This place… was entirely different.

Though still called Velmira Village, its buildings and roads no longer resembled her memories.

It used to be adorned with black stone houses and winding paths shaded by ancient trees. Now everything was brighter, more orderly—yet it felt foreign.

She looked to the horizon, letting the wind sweep through her hair. Never had she imagined, after hundreds of years turned to stone,

that she would stand here watching a world that had moved on without her.

The sound of steady breathing broke her reverie. Ozra turned and saw Aren training.

He warmed up diligently before swinging his sword in tireless repetition.

Sweat soaked his back and temples, yet his gaze stayed focused.

Ozra smiled faintly. “You are weak,” she whispered softly, “but at least you’re not just any coward.”

She sat down, leaning against a large rock, letting her body relax into the cool dusk air.

Her sleep was peaceful—for the first time since awakening from the curse.

When she woke, the sky had faded to indigo. Stars began to appear above, and the sounds of night insects replaced the whispers of the day.

Ozra slowly lifted her head, blinking until her vision cleared.

Aren was still there, training. His movements are no longer as strong, but just as earnest.

She stared at him for a long while. Even in exhaustion, he didn’t stop.

"So not just a coward… a crazy coward,” Ozra murmured in amusement.

Aren turned, wiping sweat from his brow. “Oh, you’re awake?” he said with a tired smile. “If you’re fully rested, let’s head back to the village. It’s getting late.”

Ozra paused. “Was he… waiting for me to wake up?” she wondered silently.

Her eyes lingered on his tired but unrushed expression.

He hadn’t woken her. He waited.

They began descending the hill slowly. Moonlight lit the narrow path through grass and stones. The air grew colder.

Ozra occasionally glanced at Aren. Sweat still dripped from his jaw. Veins bulged on his arms—signs of the grueling training he’d just endured.

Then suddenly, the sound of slipping broke the silence.

Aren tripped over a tree root and tumbled down the slope. A few meters later, he landed with a muffled cry.

Ozra gasped, startled, and rushed after him.

“Are you alright?” she asked quickly, kneeling beside Aren as he grimaced in pain.

Aren winced. A long gash marred his left arm, blood slowly seeping from the raw wound.

“I think… I just need a little rest,” he muttered with a half-laugh.

But before Ozra could respond, Aren’s expression changed.

He clutched his chest, pain stabbing from within.

His eyes narrowed, enduring a hurt that didn’t come from his wound. His hand touched his chest, startled.

“Why does it feel like I’m being stabbed… from the inside?” he whispered, gritting not just from pain, but from the foreign sensation creeping through his body.

He turned toward Ozra, who was inspecting his injury—and that’s when he saw it.

Under the pale moonlight, the woman’s eyes changed. Deep violet, tinged with gold.

The exact color of the eyes he saw at the altar that night. A familiar face he couldn’t place.

At the same moment, Ozra froze. She saw it.

From Aren’s chest, a faint ripple of light shimmered—like water disturbed by stone.

It was her power.

No words passed between them for a long time. Only steady breathing and the wind brushing the tall grass. And in that silence, the world seemed to slow.

Ozra watched quietly, gazing into the confused eyes of the man before her.

And for the first time, she felt fear. Not for losing her power—

But because this man might hold something even she could not comprehend.