A Cursed Choice
What lengths will a father go to rescue his daughter?
We have your daughter. She belongs to the viridin, now. You know what we want.
Hands shaking, Belgrim Dultana folded the tear-stained note, and placed it back into his pocket, over his broken heart.
A year had passed since they snatched her from him. Since then, Belgrim had traversed Altera’s eastern seaboard, collecting his daughter’s ransom.
Belgrim prayed with his very soul that they would not harm his little girl. Hollow echoes from the void above were the only reply.
A stark shroud of silence permeated The Wayfarer’s Reprieve, an inn along the imperial highway.
Neat rows of polished wooden tables lined the common room atop a crimson carpet. Miss Bella ran a tight ship. Nothing was out of place— well, almost nothing.
A luminous cord of sizzling violet circled Miss Bella, an enchantment that kept the innkeeper’s limbs bound and outstretched.
Bilious guilt stagnated within his stomach under her gaze, those liquid pools of emerald reflecting his betrayal. She had treated Belgrim well. Her kind words and heartfelt hospitality had been much needed medicine. She’d even called him ‘friend.’
He picked up the knife from the table next to him. The rune-inscribed obsidian was augmented with a ruby that glistened like a crimson eye, glaring at Belgrim with fervent anticipation.
Clutching the foul instrument as though it were a live viper, he invoked one of its many enchantments. A black fire erupted from the blade. Belgrim could feel its ravenous hunger. It whispered promises to Belgrim, if only he’d let it feast.
“Please, Belgrim, don’t,” Miss Bella whimpered, terror etched into her round face. ”Why are you doing this?”
He took a step toward her and plunged the dagger into her chest.
“For Alela,” he whispered.
What felt like hours later, Belgrim pocketed his prize: a glowing soul gem. He knelt beside her body and gently closed her eyes, then hurried to the stairs across the common-room.
A young girl, not much older than his daughter, stumbled down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Aunt Bella, what’s going on? I thought I heard— ” the young girl’s words were cut short when she saw her aunt.
“Aunt Bella!” she screamed, anguish marring her face. Then she saw Belgrim, smeared in blood and still clutching the knife.
Pain an confusion marred her face as she came to grips with what he’d done.
“No,” she whispered.
Belgrim would never forget that face— it would haunt him for the rest of his days. She looked up at the monster he’d become through tear-soaked eyes. This day was far from done taking its toll “I...” He began, then faltered.
He’d sworn to stop at nothing to get Alela back. He failed to protect her once. He would not fail again.
Belgrim cleared his thoughts, and swallowed a bitter lump of self-loathing. His cold gaze met hers. Alela’s captors had been clear— they would tolerate no witnesses. The blade knew what was to come, and it was pleased.
“I’m so sorry,” he croaked.
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She Smiled Every Day, But No One Asked Why
She smiled every day. Not the kind of smile that demanded attention. Not wide or loud or dramatic. It was small, polite, practiced—something she had learned to wear the way people wore shoes before stepping outside. Necessary. Expected. Invisible. People loved her smile. They said it made her look strong. What they never asked was why she needed it so badly. Every morning, she stood in front of the mirror and adjusted her face before adjusting her clothes. She lifted the corners of her mouth just enough. Relaxed her eyes. Smoothed the tiredness away with habit, not rest. The woman staring back at her looked fine. Fine was convincing. Fine was safe. Fine meant no questions. She had learned early that sadness made people uncomfortable. When she was younger and cried too openly, adults told her to be grateful. Friends told her to stay positive. Strangers told her others had it worse. So she stopped explaining. She stopped sharing. She stopped crying where anyone could see. Instead, she smiled. At work, she was known as reliable. The one who stayed late. The one who listened. The one who never complained. When stress filled the room, people leaned toward her calm like it was something contagious. “You’re always so strong,” they said. She nodded. Strength, she learned, was another name people used when they didn’t want to look closer. At home, the silence was heavier. No one asked about her day because she answered before the question could form. “It was fine.” Always fine. The word filled the space like furniture—useful, unmoving, impossible to trip over. At night, when the world quieted, the weight returned. Thoughts she had carefully avoided all day lined up patiently, waiting their turn. What if this is all I am? What if no one ever sees me? What if I disappear slowly and no one notices? She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths instead of dreams. Her phone buzzed often. Messages asking for favors. For advice. For reassurance. Rarely for her. She answered anyway. Smiling emojis replaced honesty. Short replies replaced explanations. She became fluent in sounding okay without being okay. People loved that about her. The breaking point did not arrive with drama. It arrived quietly, like everything else. One afternoon, while standing in line at a café, the barista looked at her and said, “You’re always smiling. You must have a good life.” It was meant as a compliment. Her chest tightened. For a moment, the words stuck in her throat. A thousand truths pressed forward, desperate to escape. But the line moved. The cup was handed to her. And she smiled. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I do.” That night, she cried for reasons she couldn’t fully explain. Not loud sobs. Just tears that came steadily, without urgency, as if they had been waiting patiently for permission. She cried for the girl who learned too early how to hide. For the woman who had become invisible behind her own kindness. She cried because she was tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of being easy to overlook. Tired of smiling when no one asked why. The change began with something small. The next time someone asked, “How are you?” she paused. Just for a second. “I’m… managing,” she said. The words felt dangerous. Honest. Real. The person nodded and moved on. Nothing collapsed. No one panicked. The world continued. Something inside her shifted. She began to notice how often people used her strength as an excuse not to care deeper. How easily smiles were mistaken for happiness. How silence was confused with peace. She started journaling at night. Not pretty words. Not inspirational quotes. Just truth. Messy and unfinished. Some nights she wrote only one sentence: “I needed someone today.” One evening, a friend looked at her differently. “You seem tired,” they said. Not accusing. Just observant. She almost denied it. Almost. “I am,” she admitted. The room did not fall apart. The friend did not leave. Instead, they listened. It wasn’t a miracle. It didn’t fix everything. But it mattered. She realized then that being seen wasn’t about being loud. It was about being honest with the right people. She did not stop smiling altogether. Smiles weren’t the enemy. Pretending was. She began letting her smile rest when it needed to. Letting silence speak when words failed. Letting herself be human instead of admirable. Some people drifted away. Others stayed closer. That told her everything she needed to know. One morning, standing in front of the mirror again, she noticed something new. Her smile looked different. Softer. Less forced. It didn’t appear on command anymore. It arrived when it wanted to—and left when it needed to. For the first time, she didn’t adjust it. She left the house as she was. Later that day, someone asked, “Are you okay?” She considered the question carefully. “No,” she said. “But I’m learning.” The words felt like freedom. She still smiled some days. Other days, she didn’t. And slowly, gently, she learned this truth: A smile can hide pain—but it can also return once the pain is finally allowed to speak. And maybe the real strength wasn’t in smiling every day. Maybe it was in letting someone finally ask why—and staying long enough to answer.
By Inayat khan3 days ago in Fiction
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Author Comment: The 500 word limit was tough. Here is a link to the full version: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Xcf85WDQl_3YUApP9rqNy9oNiGilbzSgDjlj6cgFbIg/edit?usp=sharing