I collapsed to the kitchen floor, a scream tearing from my throat as searing pain ripped across my chest and arms. The knife I'd been using to chop vegetables clattered against the stone tiles. Blood—my blood—seeped through the fabric of my dress, creating dark crimson patterns that spread like spilled wine.

"Lady Elaine!" Martha, one of the kitchen servants, rushed to my side, her eyes wide with horror. "What happened? Did you cut yourself?"

I couldn't answer. The agony was too intense, stealing my breath and clouding my vision. This wasn't the first time, but it was certainly among the worst. Somewhere on a battlefield miles away, my husband Logan Parker was bleeding from fresh wounds—and through our cursed bond, I felt every slash and stab as if they were inflicted upon my own flesh.

"Get help!" Martha called to another servant. "Quickly!"

I curled into myself, trembling as wave after wave of pain washed over me. The empathy curse that bound me to Logan was our wedding gift—though only I knew of its existence. My family had offered me as a "living charm" to the war hero, a mystical talisman to bring him good fortune in battle. What they hadn't mentioned was that I would bear the physical cost of that protection.

"He's... wounded again," I managed to whisper through clenched teeth.

Martha's face softened with pity. She had witnessed these episodes before, though like everyone else, she believed them to be some strange affliction of mine rather than the supernatural consequence of my husband's military exploits.

"Let's get you to your chambers, my lady," she said gently, helping me to my feet.

The journey to my bedroom was excruciating. Each step sent fresh jolts of pain through my body. By the time Martha and another servant laid me on my bed, my dress was soaked with blood that had no source—no visible wounds, only the phantom agony of injuries sustained by a man who had never shown me an ounce of kindness.

---

Three days later, I was still bedridden, the phantom wounds slowly healing just as Logan's real ones would be. I had learned from the servants that my husband had indeed returned from battle, severely wounded across his chest and arms—exactly where I had felt the pain.

I heard his footsteps in the hallway outside my chamber and tensed, wondering if perhaps this time he might visit, might show some concern for my condition. But the footsteps continued past my door without hesitation, their confident rhythm telling me he was fully recovered while I still suffered.

Later that afternoon, I forced myself to rise. The pain had subsided enough that I could move, though each motion remained a careful negotiation with my body. I needed air. The walls of my chamber felt like they were closing in on me after days of confinement.

I made my way slowly to the garden, leaning heavily against the stone balustrade as I descended the steps. The fresh air was a small mercy, though even the light weight of my shawl against my skin felt abrasive on my phantom wounds.

That's when I saw them through the rose arbor—Logan and Celine. My husband stood close to his mistress, his hands cupping her face with a tenderness he had never shown me. From my position, I could see the glint of something green and luminous as he lifted it between them.

"A healing jade," I whispered in disbelief.

The pendant was legendary among those with knowledge of mystical artifacts. It could ease supernatural suffering and protect against curses—exactly what I needed most. And Logan was fastening it around Celine's slender neck.

"You are my good fortune," I heard him say, his voice carrying on the breeze. "Everything bright in my life comes from you."

Celine's delicate laugh floated through the garden. "And what of your wife? I heard she fell ill again while you were away."

Logan's shoulders stiffened slightly. "Elaine brings nothing but bad luck to this household. She's naturally weak—always has been. I fulfilled my obligation by marrying her, but I won't pretend there's anything more to it than that."

I gripped the balustrade tighter, my knuckles turning white. The casual cruelty of his words hurt more than the phantom wounds I bore for him.

As I turned to retreat to my chambers, I caught sight of Celine looking directly at me over Logan's shoulder. For just a moment, her mask of sweetness slipped, revealing something cold and calculating in her eyes before she quickly resumed her gentle expression.

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with my weakened state. In that brief glance, I recognized something I had missed before—the look of a predator assessing its prey.

The kitchen was thick with steam and the scent of roasted herbs when Celine swept in three days later, her pale blue gown pristine against the smoke-stained walls. I had finally recovered enough to resume my duties, though my arms still bore faint traces of the phantom wounds—invisible to others, but tender to the touch.

"Oh, Elaine," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "You shouldn't be working so soon after your... spell. Let me help."

I stiffened at her approach but forced a polite nod. "I'm quite recovered, thank you."

She moved closer anyway, positioning herself near the large pot of water I'd set to boil for the evening's soup. The copper vessel hung over the flames, its contents roiling and spitting steam into the air.

"Such a dangerous place, the kitchen," Celine murmured, running her fingers along the edge of the worktable. "So many ways one could get hurt."

Something in her tone made the hair on my neck stand up. I shifted slightly, putting more distance between us, but she followed with the graceful determination of a cat stalking a mouse.

"Martha mentioned you were bleeding when you collapsed," she continued, her eyes fixed on the boiling pot. "Blood from nowhere. How very strange."

My hands tightened on the knife I'd been using to chop vegetables. "It's a condition I've had since childhood."

"How unfortunate." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Logan works so hard to keep this household safe, and his own wife brings such... complications."

Before I could respond, she reached for a ladle hanging above the pot—or pretended to. Her hand knocked against the copper vessel's handle with deliberate force. Time seemed to slow as the massive pot tipped, its contents arcing through the air in a glittering cascade of scalding water.

I threw my arms up instinctively, and the boiling liquid struck my exposed skin. The pain was immediate and blinding—real this time, not phantom. My screams tore through the kitchen as the water seared my flesh, leaving angry red welts that would surely blister.

"Elaine!" Celine shrieked, her voice pitched perfectly for maximum attention. "Oh god, I tried to catch it—I tried to stop you!"

I collapsed to my knees, cradling my burned arms against my chest. Through the haze of agony, I saw Celine backing away, her own hands suspiciously dry, her dress unmarked by a single drop of water.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Logan burst through the door, his face flushed from his recent return home. His eyes swept the scene—me on the floor, Celine standing near the overturned pot with tears streaming down her face.

"What happened here?" His voice was sharp, commanding.

"I tried to help," Celine sobbed, pressing her hands to her mouth. "She was reaching for something, and the pot—I grabbed for it, but I wasn't fast enough. Oh, Logan, I'm so sorry!"

I looked up at my husband, my vision blurring with tears of pain. "That's not—"

"Enough," Logan cut me off, his expression hardening. "Your carelessness has disturbed the entire household again. Can you not perform even the simplest tasks without incident?"

The injustice of his words stole my breath more effectively than the pain. "I didn't—"

"You never do, according to you." He turned to Celine, his voice softening instantly. "Are you hurt? Did any of the water touch you?"

"No, I'm fine." She wiped at her eyes with delicate fingers. "I'm just grateful it wasn't worse."

Logan helped her to her feet with a gentleness that made my chest ache worse than my burned arms. He didn't even glance my way as Martha and another servant rushed in to help me.

"Get her cleaned up and bandaged," he ordered without looking at me. "And post someone to supervise her kitchen work from now on. I won't have my household disrupted by constant accidents."

As the servants helped me to my feet, I caught Celine watching me over Logan's shoulder. That same predatory gleam flickered in her eyes, along with something new—satisfaction. She had hurt me, turned my husband further against me, and emerged as the sympathetic victim, all in one perfect strike.

The message was clear: this was only the beginning.

---

Two days after the scalding incident, Logan departed for another campaign. I watched from my chamber window as he mounted his horse in the courtyard below, Celine standing close to say her farewells. He kissed her hand with a tenderness that sent a dull ache through my chest—this one entirely my own.

Within hours of his departure, the familiar agony began. I was sitting in my chambers, trying to apply fresh salve to my healing burns, when the first jolt hit. A sword wound, sharp and deep, tearing through my left shoulder. I dropped the jar of salve, its contents spilling across the floor as I fell to my knees.

Then came the burns—different from the scalding water, hotter and more vicious. Greek fire. I could smell it even though none touched me, could feel the unnatural heat eating through skin that showed no wounds. My screams echoed off the stone walls, but this time, no one came running.

I crawled toward my bed, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through my body. The door to my chamber opened, and for one desperate moment, I thought someone had come to help. But it was Celine who slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

"How convenient," she said softly, "that everyone is so accustomed to your episodes. They've learned not to disturb you during these fits."

I couldn't respond, couldn't do anything but curl tighter around the pain that radiated from my shoulder and across my chest.

Celine moved through my room with purposeful efficiency, opening drawers and examining my belongings. "Logan mentioned your family has shamanic blood. How interesting. I wonder what other secrets you're hiding?"

She rifled through my things while I suffered on the floor, unable to stop her, unable to call for help. The phantom burns intensified, and I lost consciousness to the sound of her footsteps retreating from my chamber.

When I finally woke hours later, the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. But something felt wrong. I looked around my room, trying to identify what had changed. Everything appeared to be in its place, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that Celine had found what she was looking for—or worse, had left something behind.

The familiar agony struck me like lightning as I sat mending a torn dress in my chamber. Logan had returned victorious from his latest campaign, and somewhere below in the great hall, I could hear the sounds of celebration—laughter, clinking goblets, servants rushing about with platters of food. But here in my room, I bore the cost of his triumph.

A sword wound across my ribs sent me gasping to my knees. Then came the deep gash along my thigh, followed by what felt like a spear point piercing my shoulder. Each injury Logan had sustained in battle manifested on my body as phantom agony, the empathy curse ensuring I paid the price for his glory in blood and pain.

I bit down on a strip of cloth to muffle my screams, having learned that my cries only brought annoyance from the household staff. Through the haze of suffering, I heard footsteps approaching my door—light, delicate steps that could only belong to one person.

Celine entered without knocking, her pale green silk gown rustling as she moved. In her hands, she carried a small wooden box, and her eyes held that predatory gleam I'd come to dread.

"Oh, Elaine," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Another episode? How terrible for you." She paused, tilting her head as if considering something. "I've made a discovery that might explain your... condition."

I struggled to focus through the pain, watching as she set the box on my writing desk with deliberate care.

"I found these hidden in the servants' quarters," she continued, opening the box to reveal several dark objects—a blackened bone carved with symbols, a vial of what looked like dried blood, and a twisted piece of metal that seemed to absorb light. "The servants are whispering that someone in this house practices forbidden magic. Dark magic."

My blood turned to ice despite the fire of phantom wounds coursing through my body. Those artifacts—I had never seen them before in my life, but I recognized the trap being laid.

"Where did you really get those?" I managed to whisper.

Celine's mask of innocence never wavered. "I'm so frightened, Elaine. Logan needs to know about this immediately. The safety of our household depends on it." She closed the box with a soft click. "I do hope whoever is responsible comes forward before something terrible happens."

She left me there, writhing in pain and helpless to stop what I knew was coming. Within the hour, I heard her voice drifting up from the hall below, tearful and trembling as she spoke to Logan about her "discovery."

---

The phantom wounds had barely begun to heal when Logan's boots thundered up the stairs. My chamber door burst open with such force it struck the stone wall, and my husband filled the doorway like an avenging storm. His face was flushed with wine and fury, his eyes blazing with an anger I had never seen directed at me so intensely.

"Explain this," he snarled, holding up the wooden box. "Explain why artifacts of dark magic were found in my house, hidden where only someone with intimate knowledge of these halls could place them."

I struggled to sit up, my body still tender from bearing his latest battle wounds. "Logan, I've never seen those things before—"

"Lies!" He slammed the box down on my writing desk, making the inkwell jump. "Your family's shamanic blood, your constant afflictions, the way misfortune seems to follow you like a shadow. I should have seen the signs."

"Please, listen to me." I tried to stand, but my legs shook from the lingering effects of the curse. "Someone planted those. I would never—"

"Celine found them because she was brave enough to investigate the strange occurrences in this house. The shadows she's seen, the cold spots, the way servants whisper about unnatural things." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You've been practicing forbidden arts under my own roof."

The injustice of it stole my breath. After everything I had endured for him, every wound I had borne, every moment of pain I had suffered in silence—this was how he repaid my sacrifice.

"I have done nothing but serve this household faithfully," I said, finding strength in my desperation. "I have never practiced dark magic. Those artifacts were planted to frame me."

Logan's hand moved to the sword at his hip, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he might draw it. Instead, he turned toward the door and called for his guards.

"Prepare the snake pit," he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a military commander. "My wife will spend the night there to contemplate the consequences of trafficking with dark forces."

The blood drained from my face. The snake pit—a deep stone chamber beneath the estate where venomous serpents were kept as both deterrent and punishment for the most serious crimes. No one had been thrown into it for years, not since Logan's father ruled these lands.

"Logan, please," I whispered, but he had already turned away, his decision final.

Two guards appeared in my doorway, their faces grim but determined. They had their orders, and Logan Parker's word was law in this house.

As they seized my arms, I caught a glimpse of Celine in the hallway, watching from the shadows. The satisfaction in her eyes was unmistakable—she had orchestrated this perfectly, and now she would have what she wanted most: my complete destruction.