The scent of wilted roses clung to the air like mourning perfume.
Princess Elira stood motionless beneath the silver spires of the royal crypt, her black veil hanging like a shadow over her pale face. She was having flashbacks of when she was with Lord ravel,the man who she called father,"father please don't come any closer " Elira said, Elira.you know I am not scared of you and you my daughter,you are not cursed alright,we will definitely find the solution to this sickness and we can only do it together,he holds her hands to console her.
She is back to reality seeing the casket before her, it was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting flickers of torchlight and the hollow eyes of the gathered court. The man inside had once dared to love her. Now he was dead just like the others.
The High Priest started the burial rite, his voice echoing coldly through the stone chamber. Elira barely heard it. She was lost in her own thoughts, wondering what could be the solution to this said curse.Her gaze was fixed on the bouquet resting atop the casket: dark crimson roses. Her favorites. A cruel gesture.
Lord Ravel had been bold. Too bold. He had touched her hand last week beneath the arch of the Winter Garden, whispering poetry and promises. She remembered his smile. Soft, charming. Not yet afraid.
He was dead by morning.
"Your Highness," a courtier whispered, bowing low beside her. "Shall we proceed with the offering?"
Elira's fingers gripped beneath her silk gloves. She nodded once.
An attendant stepped forward, carrying a silver bowl filled with ash. The offering to the dead. Elira took a pinch between her gloved fingers and let it fall like snow upon the casket. The flames of the torches dimmed. The chamber darkened.
As the ash fell, the roses blackened.
It was always the same.
Behind her, nobles shifted uncomfortably, murmuring prayers. Not to the gods but for protection,from her. She could feel their fear like heat on her back. It no longer hurt. It was simply familiar.
The ceremony ended in silence. No one offered condolences. No one met her eyes.
Only her mother, the Queen, remained standing as the others filed out. Draped in mourning silver, her face was as unreadable as a statue. "Another death, Elira," she said coolly. "You must learn to control this... sickness. Or no one will be left to stand beside you when the crown passes hands."
"It's not sickness," Elira replied softly. "It's a curse."Elira has always believed that she was actually cursed but her parents always used to console her that it was an illness that would be cured in no time.it seems as though the time never came or would never come.
The Queen's eyes narrowed. "Call it what you will. Fix it."
Elira didn't respond. What could she say? That she had spent her childhood watching servants wither? That tutors, handmaids, and would-be suitors alike had all fallen to her touch when their affection turned too warm?
That love killed?
The Queen turned and swept out of the crypt, her silver train whispering over the stones like a serpent. Elira lingered a moment longer.
She looked down at the blackened roses.
There was nothing left to mourn. Not really.
Only ash.