Aeryn did not stop running until his legs gave out. The stars above mocked him with their indifferent glow. He collapsed in a patch of cold earth, burying his cursed hands into the dirt, as though he could bleed the magic from his veins.

But there was no cure.

No salvation.

Only exile.

For days, he wandered, unseen, unwanted. Hunger gnawed at him, but every fruit he touched liquefied into useless gold. Every stream he reached turned into a glimmering, poisoned pool.

He thought of Liora. Of Dain. Their faces, frozen in terror, burned behind his eyes.

Tears welled, but he dared not wipe them away. Even his own grief might turn to golden death.

He let out a breath, slow and shaky.

He would never again touch another living soul.

He was no longer Aeryn the Alchemist.

He was Aeryn the Cursed.

And the road ahead stretched endlessly into the dark.

The End.