Draemor did not rise-it loomed.
The castle stood atop a blackened cliff, its towers like broken teeth biting into the sky. The gates were iron, twisted and jagged like they had been grown, not forged. Fog clung to the earth like a second skin, curling around the hooves of the horses as they approached.
Elira stared in silence, heart hammering in her chest.
She had thought the stories exaggerated. They were not.
The castle was alive with wrongness.
They crossed the threshold at dusk. The rider said nothing, only led her through the open gates. No guards greeted them. No servants. Only stillness, and the faint sound of something scraping along stone-far away, yet somehow all around.
Elira swallowed. Her mouth tasted of metal.
Inside, the air was colder than outside. The corridors were wide but narrow-feeling, lined with tall windows of stained glass that depicted no saints or gods-only thorns, beasts, fire, and a black-crowned figure whose face had been scratched away in every panel.
Portraits lined the halls, most slashed or burned. Her footsteps echoed.
Then they reached the throne room.
It was vast, hollow, and starved of light. The floor was obsidian veined with red. Dead roses littered the base of the dais, where a high-backed throne of bone and iron waited in silence.
And on it sat the cursed prince.
Elira stopped breathing.
He was not what she had expected. Not a monster-at least not entirely.
He was tall, clad in black armor that shimmered like oil, his face partly hidden beneath a silver half-mask. His exposed skin was pale, almost translucent, veins glowing faintly beneath it. His eyes-one silver, one shadowed-met hers with the weight of centuries.
A crown of black thorns circled his head, pulsing faintly with something that was not light.
"So," he said, voice low, sharp, like silk dragged across broken glass. "Another offering."
Elira flinched but held his gaze. "I have a name."
His mouth curved. Not a smile. Something more dangerous.
"They all do. At first."
The rider stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Elira of Hearth Hollow. Chosen by the seer. No signs of illness. No resistance."
Elira's hands curled into fists. No resistance
She had screamed herself hoarse behind closed doors.
The prince stood. He was taller than she'd realized, but moved like a shadow-quiet, fluid, wrong.
"Leave us," he said.
The rider hesitated. "Your Grace, it's not-"
"Leave us."
They obeyed.
Now she was alone with him.
Elira swallowed and lifted her chin. "If you're going to kill me, do it now. I'd rather die fast than rot in this tomb."
The prince tilted his head. "Bold. Unwise. But bold."
He stepped down from the dais. Each step echoed.
"I do not kill my brides," he said, circling her. "I marry them."
His breath stirred the air beside her ear.
"But they die anyway."
Elira didn't move.
He stopped in front of her, gaze unreadable.
"Tell me, Elira of Hearth Hollow... how long will you last?"
She met his gaze, voice steady despite the terror in her blood.
"Long enough to break whatever curse keeps you hiding in shadows."
Silence.
Then-unexpectedly-a low, bitter laugh.
"I've burned through queens, witches, saints, and sinners. What makes you think you're different?"
"I don't," she said. "But I'm not them."
Their eyes locked-and something unspoken passed between them.
A flicker. A spark. Or maybe a warning.
Then he turned, his voice colder than ice. "You will sleep in the west wing. Do not wander after nightfall. Do not enter the northern tower. And above all..."
He looked back at her, and for the first time, she saw it-beneath the mask, beneath the thorns.
Loneliness. Endless and suffocating.
"...do not follow the music."