The winter's chill clung to the morning air as Robert and Harriet set forth from their home under a sky veiled in silvery mist. Their path wound through fields of ripening rye and thickets draped in bramble; each breath they drew bore the tang of dew-soaked grass and distant peat fires. Robert offered his arm to Harriet, and though her fingers trembled, her hand found his, drawing courage from the warmth of his grasp.
"It shall be but a brief journey, my love," he whispered, his steady gaze meeting hers. In his eyes lay promise and protectiveness, a silent vow that no spectre or trial would sunder them.
They left the well-worn cart track at the edge of the wood, where ancient oaks arched their branches like cathedral pillars above the narrow trail. Sunlight fell in mottled patches, flickering over the undergrowth of ferns and wild garlic. At times a distant rustle suggested the passage of unseen creatures, and Harriet pressed herself closer to Robert, whose steady presence eased her mounting dread.
"Fear not the unknown," he murmured as the path grew stonier and darker. "I am here beside thee."
The woodland soon gave way to open heathland, where the wind sighed across undulating tussocks of heather and coarse grass. Here and there, half-buried stones marked by strange runes hinted at rites long forgotten. Harriet brushed her fingers over a lichen-wreathed boulder and felt a thrill of apprehension at its cool, unearthly surface.
"I scarce like these signs of olden magic," she confessed softly.
He squeezed her hand. "We tread where only the bold dare venture. Our purpose is just, and my heart shall not falter."
At last, they beheld the clearing: a circle of fallen stones half-hidden by bracken. In the centre stood a portal wrought of gleaming black metal, fashioned like a simple doorframe yet humming with a power that stirred the hair upon their necks. Strange motes of light danced within its edges, and as they approached, they saw objects around them stir—an iron kettle trembling upon a moss-grown hearth, a length of rope swaying though no breeze blew.
Harriet faltered. "Robert…what manner of sorcery is this?"
He drew her close, planting a gentle kiss upon her temple. "Whatever it be, I shall never leave thee."
With resolute hearts they stepped through the doorframe. A hush fell. The world beyond shifted: the sky turned to a slate-grey twilight, and the scent of damp earth and incense filled their nostrils. The kettle's tremor ceased; the rope fell still. They moved forward into a clearing encircled by twisted yew trees, their branches weeping black needles that carpeted the ground.
Before them, half-buried among ivy and gnarled roots, stood a modest hut. Its walls were of dark oak planks bound by iron strapping, the roof thatched with ash-coloured reeds. A single narrow window glowed with an inner light like a watchful eye. Smoke curled from a bent iron chimney, carrying the acrid tang of herbs and unknown resins.
Hand in hand, they crossed the threshold. Inside, the air thrummed with subdued power. The walls were lined with shelves heavy with dusty tomes, jars of strange powders, and bones polished to a pale sheen. In the centre of the room stood a table carved from a single gnarl of oak, upon which lay a silver chalice and an obsidian mirror framed in twisting runes.
Behind this table, leaning upon a carved staff of bleached bone, stood Morven the Sable. His gaunt face, skin pale as moonlight—was half-hidden by the cowl of his midnight-black robes. His luminous blue eyes regarded them with an unsettling calm, and his lean hands, tipped with nails like obsidian, gripped the staff as though it were a part of himself.
"Robert Blackwood,Harriet Fairweather," he intoned, voice low and echoing. "I know why thou hast come. No divination is required. Ye are not destined to be joined in the bond of parenthood—therein lies the curse upon thy line. Should thou remain together, no offspring shall spring from thy union."
Harriet's breath caught. She clung to Robert's arm, eyes wide with shock and indignation.
Morven's gaze fell upon her, and he added quietly, "Thy hearts are intertwined yet doomed. This I tell thee now: each moment spent as one shall only strengthen Fate's decree that no child shall be born to thee."
Robert drew a steadying breath and faced the magician, shoulders squared though his heart raged within.
"Then we must part?" he asked, voice trembling with restrained fury.
Morven inclined his head. "Sever your vows or embrace the emptiness that ensues. Such is the will of the unseen powers."
A deathly silence followed, broken only by the distant drip of water from the thatched roof. Harriet's tears glistened in the dim light as she pressed closer to Robert.
Harriet's breath hitched as Morven's candlelight danced across her tear-streaked face. Doubt fluttered in her eyes when she turned pleadingly to Robert.
"Robert," she whispered, voice trembling with desperation, "I cannot abide a life without thee. If we abandon this hope now, I swear I shall wither like a flower bereft of sunlight. I yearn to use my very womb to bear thine heir, to cradle our legacy against my breast."
Robert's hand closed about hers, rough warmth steadying her. He drew a quiet breath and cast a glancing apology toward the sorcerer before speaking to his wife. "My love, I have already told thee, I fear this path. Let us instead adopt a child in need. There are babies in every hamlet who crave a home. We could grant them life and love without courting doom."
The edges of Harriet's lip trembled into a bitter curl. "Adopt? Hast thou already hearkened to thy mother's schemes? Perchance thou hast found another fair maiden willing to bear thee children I cannot?" She pressed her palm to her heart, tears spilling anew. "If thou yieldest so soon, I shall know I have lost thee entirely."
Robert's eyes burned with anguish, and his voice rang out for the first time in that chamber. "We dare not defy Destiny with abandon! I love thee beyond the air I breathe—thou art the very breath of my soul. I would see thy happiness even at mine own undoing, yet I cannot bear to see thee ruined by this folly."
Their cries of shared torment echoed amid the dusty tomes and bone-etched shelves. Morven stood apart, arms folded beneath his sable robes, his expression inscrutable. When at last he spoke, his tone carried both reluctance and ancient gravity.
"Ye two are as incompatible by blood as by Fate's decree," he intoned, voice echoing as though from a hidden abyss. "Were I to force this miracle against the stars' design, the price would be unimaginable. Mark my words: pain shall follow—perhaps the loss of all that ye hold dear."
Harriet met his gaze defiantly, spite burning in her tear-wet eyes. "We care not for consequence. Let sorrow come if it must; a single day of motherhood is worth a lifetime of grief."
Robert stepped forward, shoulders squared in solidarity. "We shall face whatever shadows, so long as we do so together."
Morven's pale lips curved in a ghost of a smile. "So be it. Return at the third dawn hence, when the moon is waning. At midnight's stroke, bring with ye two offerings: the rose of fidelity and the tear of true love. Then shall my art be wrought."
Hand in hand, Robert and Harriet emerged from the magician's hut into the moonlit heath. The night air felt colder than before, as though the very world held its breath at the terms they had agreed. Robert drew her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.
"We face the darkness together," he whispered, voice firm with promise.
Harriet raised tear-blurred eyes to his. "Together, across any chasm—of fate or of death."