A hush fell over the market. The murmurs stopped, as if the whole slum held its breath at once. From the crowd, a figure in a dark cloak stepped forward. He moved with purpose, not fear, his hood shadowing a face Arthur could not see.

Unlike the rest, he did not whisper. He did not shrink back. He simply raised a hand, pointing straight at Arthur with unnerving calm.

“There,” the cloaked man said, his voice carrying like steel across the silence. “The Cursed One has awakened.”

The crowd gasped as if the words themselves were a sentence. Mothers pulled their children closer. Men turned away, muttering prayers under their breath.

Arthur’s fire sputtered on his fists, but it would not die out. His heart thundered as he stared at the stranger, and in that instant, he realized the truth:

His life was no longer his own.

Arthur remained in his shop long after the market had begun to stir with the restless hum of rumors. The seven children huddled together in the corner, their small faces pale and tight, listening to the voices that drifted in from outside.

The name Arthur was spoken in fearful tones and it was spreading like wildfire through the streets. Still Arthur played nonchalant, forcing himself not to falter in the presence of the kids and the people watching him

Instead of wavering, he used the time to set up his store. Arranging the bows of different sizes and colors along the wooden rack. The delicate curves gleamed under the light polished oak, ash, and cherrywood, each strung with care, some painted with bright designs, others carved with intricate symbols.

“Stay together,” Arthur murmured quietly to the children without looking at them. His voice was steady, though his heart wasn’t.

The first customer stepped in, a woman with sharp eyes who avoided looking directly at him. Still, she admired the bows, asked for one in blue lacquer, and placed the coins down without lingering.

Then another came, and another. By midday, Arthur realized his hands had scarcely paused. The bows left the shelves one after the other, each sale more brisk than the last.

Oddly enough, he made the most sales that day than he had in weeks. People came with excuses on their lips: gifts for children, practice for the hunting season, decorative pieces. But Arthur could see it in their eyes..the curiosity, the hunger to glimpse the man the market now ripples about.

By the time the sun barely appeared in the sky, Arthur’s stall was almost bare. With a tired sigh, he locked up before anyone else did, pulling the shutters down first that evening.

The 7 kids trailed after him, clutching each other’s hands. Their shabby house waited at the edge of the market quarter, its walls patched with boards and its roof sagging, but to them it was home.

On the way, they stopped at small shops to buy foodstuffs and groceries. Everywhere they went, the air felt heavy. Shopkeepers pretended to smile, but when Arthur’s back turned, he heard the murmurs.

“That’s him…the cursed one.”

The mysterious thing about Arthur was that he didn't unlock a curse. He was directly placed a curse on, according to the people.

Magic had suddenly become a curse in the eye of those who wanted to obtain magic.

How?

“Poor children… to be under his roof.”

Arthur kept his head down, jaw clenched, saying nothing. The children pressed close to him, their fear only deepening with each whisper. The crowd didn't care about the children with him, they went ahead to whisper whatever came to their mind.

At last, they reached the little house. Arthur let them in, bolted the door, and moved about the cramped kitchen. He lit the small fire and began cooking. The children sat quietly in a circle, their eyes following him but their mouths shut. The crackle of firewood filled the silence.

Arthur’s mind, however, was far from still. Every murmur he’d heard in the market, every sideward glance, played again in his thoughts. A curse… no magic… dangerous. He stirred the pot with a hand that trembled despite his efforts. Doubt pressed in on him like a weight. Was it true? Was he really marked by misfortune?

He wondered in himself. Arthur was one person who never cared about magic or who it belonged to. He never longed for it, so why had he gern the one to be bestowed with it?

Is that how his fate works?

When the meal was ready, he served each of the children in turn, placing bowls before them with quiet care. He sat down last. For a moment, the only sound was the scrape of spoons against wooden bowls.

Then Arthur lifted his gaze to them, his voice heavy but low. “Tell me,” he asked, “are you afraid of me too?”

The house was always filled with chuckles, giggles and clattering. But none today, it was the weirdest of all things. None of the children answered at first. Their eyes lowered, shoulders stiff. Silence grew thick between them.

The oldest amongst the children was 8 years of age. But since they had been born and dumped on the street, they've heard of magic and how it became a forbidden thing amongst the lowest rank.

Arthur’s chest tightened.

But then, the oldest boy the same one who had tugged on his sleeve in the market and asked for food earlier, lifted his head. His voice was small, but steady.

“No,” the boy said, meeting his eyes. “We’re not afraid of you.”

The words broke through the silence like a light in the dark. The other children looked at each other, uncertain but thoughtful. Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. For the first time that day, the weight pressing down on him eased, if only a little.