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Tristan shifted his gaze from the screen to me. “It's someone who knows me, where I live, and how I'd be drawn to the my sigil.”

“That's why the silver piece was hidden in the reliquary.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

We spent the next hour tearing through the other names in the acquisition file—shipping agents, bills of lading, restoration specialists, and more. None of them were real. By the time we finished, the provenance looked less like a history and more like a stage set, beautifully painted, entirely hollow, designed to be glanced at rather than examined.

“So the whole thing is fiction.” I rubbed my eyes.

“The reliquary isn't, nor is the silver piece. It's just their journey here that's false.”

“Then let's find the real story. We know the one name on this list that isn't a fabrication—Stylos.”

Tristan stood up, his face tightening, and stared into the distance. “Stylos.”

I pulled up the folder I'd made after finding the file on Stylos in storage. I'd found more about the monastery online than I had in that slim storage file. There were archaeological reports of the ruins, surveys, and stone inscriptions. Photographs showed several intact walls with arches spanning them and faded religious frescoes. There was even a nice shot of a lake with the ruins on a cliff above it.

“Modern sources call the fire accidental,” I said, scrolling through my notes. “But look at this.” I turned the screen toward him. It was a stone inscription. “This talks about a plague. Widespread death. It says the brothers believed a demon brought the sickness to the village. Is that translation accurate?”

Tristan nodded, his gaze on the screen.

“It says they built something to bind the evil,” I continued, reading slower now, feeling the weight of each word as it left my mouth. “To contain the demon, so it could no longer walk among the living.” I looked up. “Tristan, was that you?”

He just stared at the screen.

“I know you're not a demon, but did they mean you? You said they knew you were a Curse and they wanted to warn people about you. What haven't you told me?” I took his hand.

“They called me a demon because people wouldn't understand what I was.” Tristan met my gaze. “I was over seven hundred fifty years old when I arrived at Stylos, but I'd never experienced such grief before. Usually, I'm pulled to one or two people at a time. Sometimes Heartbreak will spread to others after I release it, but Stylos was different.” He tightened his hold on my hand. “The plague killed indiscriminately—children, elders, whole households in a matter of weeks. I felt it before I understood what was happening—this enormous welling of grief—and I walked toward it, unable to stop myself from releasing more heartbreak upon them.”

“What happened?”

“The monks noticed me. I was a stranger who chose to stay in a plague-riddled village. And I stood outside the homes of the dying like the Angel of Death.” His hands curled at his sides, knuckles whitening. “But they didn't see an angel in me. They declared me a demon.”

“They didn't understand.”

“It wouldn't have mattered if they had.” The words came out fierce. “They needed a scapegoat. I didn't cause the plague, Destiny. I never claimed a single life with my own hands. But I magnified their pain. I laid my Curse upon them even though they were already dying.” He turned back to me, and the pain etched into his features made something in my chest twist, sharp and aching. “I couldn't control Heartbreak among so much despair.”

I thought of the vision I'd seen when our hands touched—the flames, the screaming, Tristan standing amid it all with terror-bright eyes while people ran from him. I had watched Tristan's worst memory unfold, and now he was standing in front of me, confirming every detail with a steadiness that cost him more than he let show.

“I'm sorry,” I said, because there wasn't anything more useful to offer.

“Don't be.” Tristan's gaze met mine and went tender. “I survived. Most of them didn't.” He looked away and his gaze sharpened, the grief coming back into focus. “The monks caught me and chained me in their church. They thought they could pull Heartbreak out of me and trap it in the reliquary.”

An image of the inside of the reliquary came to mind. “That's what all the writing inside the reliquary was about and why the foundation is solid silver. It wasn't made to contain a relic. It was made to contain a Curse.”

“Yes, I remember it there, laid open on the altar. I don't recall the silver piece, though.”

“Because it was hidden inside the panel.”

“No, the face was whole when the ritual begin. I remember because it was my face.” He pulled over a stool and sat down. “The ritual summoned Heartbreak out of me. It surged toward the reliquary as a black, sparking mist. For a moment, I thought it might work. But as it reached the open container, it rose and grew. Several black tendrils stretched from the mass and slammed the monks into the walls while another closed the reliquary. Still, the magic drew it, and Heartbreak fought, creating a sound that made the surviving monks cover their ears and cower. Finally, Heartbreak condensed into a churning cone and brought its tip down upon the reliquary like a spear, right onto the image of my face.”

“What happened?”

“It shattered and created the original damage you uncovered—gouging into the silver. It broke the monks' spell, but it wasn't enough to calm Heartbreak. It swept through the monastery and set fire to it, driving all of the monks out, not only those involved with the ritual. I was helpless, chained to the wall. I could only watch as the Curse wreaked havoc. But then one of the monks, a man who I'd befriended when I first arrived, released me. He helped me escape. I thought I was free. I ran from the monastery in shame, knowing Heartbreak would choose a new vessel. But I had suffered for over seven hundred years. I would have given anything to be free, even an innocent's life.”

“I understand. I'm sure I would have done the same.”

“Thank you.” Tristan took my hand and kissed it. “But it was all for naught. As its chosen vessel, I couldn't escape Heartbreak. Even if I had crossed an ocean, it would have found me. It returned to me at dawn, when it could no longer bear to be outside a body.”