The Transference

Elara looked down at the man kneeling at her feet.

She should run. She should smash the window and flee back to the mud.

But she felt it. The pull.

It wasn't the promise of riches that swayed her. It was the agony radiating from him. To Elara, pain was a sound—a high-pitched shriek that only she could hear. Silas was screaming in silence. Her nature, the very core of her "witchcraft," compelled her to silence the scream.

She was a healer. Even if the patient was a monster.

"Stand up, Silas," she said softly.

Silas rose, unsteady, his chest heaving.

"Do it," he breathed.

Elara reached out. Her hands, pale and small, looked fragile against the expanse of his chest.

She placed her palms directly over his heart, onto the epicenter of the black web.

The contact was electric.

Elara cried out as a jolt of ice slammed into her arms. It wasn't cold like snow; it was the cold of the void, of absolute absence.

"Pull it," Silas groaned, tilting his head back, his eyes rolling up. "Pull it out."

Elara closed her eyes. She visualized the corruption. She imagined it as ink in water. She latched onto the darkness with her mind and *pulled*.

The sensation was visceral. She felt the sickness uncoil from around Silas’s heart. It was heavy, oily, and alive. It didn't want to leave him, but Elara’s purity was a vacuum, drawing it in.

The black veins on Silas’s skin began to move. They writhed like dying snakes, receding from his neck, retreating from his ribs. They flowed toward Elara’s hands.

And then, they crossed over.

Elara screamed as the darkness entered her. It burned like acid. She watched in horror as the black lines appeared on her own wrists, snaking up her forearms, disappearing under the sleeves of the blue silk gown.

"More," Silas gasped. He was straightening up. The grey color was leaving his skin, replaced by a flush of health. His breathing deepened.

"It hurts," Elara sobbed, her knees buckling. The room spun. The fire seemed to dim.

"Take it all," Silas commanded, his voice gaining strength. He gripped her shoulders, holding her in place, forcing the connection.

He was feeding her his death.

Elara felt the last of the knot unravel from his heart. With a final, sickening lurch, the core of the curse slid out of him and slammed into her chest.

The connection broke.

Elara collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. Her body felt heavy, tainted. She looked at her hands. The veins were gone from the surface, buried deep now, woven into her own blood.

She looked up.

Silas stood over her. He took a deep, full breath. He stretched his arms. His skin was flawless. The fever in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity.

He looked vibrant. He looked powerful.

He looked down at Elara, huddled on the carpet.

"My savior," he whispered.

He didn't help her up immediately. He watched her for a moment, analyzing her, ensuring the transfer was complete. Then, a slow smile spread across his face.

"You are beautiful," he said.

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