Prologue
In the ancient land of Aeloria, the moon has always been both a blessing and a curse. Legends speak of a Shadow King who once ruled the realm with darkness, twisting men into beasts and women into whispers of sorrow. Though defeated and bound centuries ago, his curse lingered, poisoning the bloodlines of kings and warriors alike.
Every hundred years, it is said, the curse stirs again. And when the shadow rises, only one of light and fire can stand against it.
The night air in Aeloria was threaded with silver light, the kind only a full moon could weave.
Isolde pressed her hand against the carved wooden door of her cottage, listening to the forest whisper. Her patients had long gone home, their fevers soothed, their broken bones wrapped. Yet something unsettled her tonight. It wasn't just the owl's cry, or the way the wind shifted—it was the pull. A tug deep inside her chest, urging her to leave the safety of her little home and step into the forest's heart.
She should not go. She knew that. The king's laws were clear: no healer was allowed to walk outside the village walls after moonrise. But the pull was undeniable, like a thread tightening around her soul.
And so she went.
Her boots sank into soft earth as she followed the moonlight. The trees stood tall, their branches like skeletal fingers scratching the sky. She clutched her satchel of herbs out of habit, though she wasn't certain if herbs could heal what she was about to find.
At the clearing's edge, she saw him.
A man knelt on one knee, his cloak torn, his face hidden in shadow. He bled from a wound across his shoulder, the crimson stark against the silver glow of night. For a heartbeat, she thought him just another traveler fallen prey to thieves. But then she saw the crest burned into the fabric of his cloak.
Her breath caught.
The royal crest of Aeloria.
"Your Highness?" she whispered, though she had never before spoken to a prince.
The man lifted his head, and the moonlight revealed him.
Prince Kael. The king's youngest son. The warrior prince whose name stirred both admiration and fear.
His eyes, pale as winter frost, locked onto hers. "You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice low, urgent. "Go. Now."
But Isolde could not leave. Something about him—something beyond the pull that had drawn her here—kept her rooted.
"You're bleeding," she said firmly. "Let me help you."
"I don't need—" He flinched as the wound tore wider.
Ignoring his protest, she knelt before him, pulling back the cloak to see the damage. It wasn't just a wound—it was laced with black veins, spreading like ink beneath the skin. Her heart hammered. She had seen this before.
Shadow poison.
It was forbidden to even speak of it.
The curse of the Shadow King.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the herbs in her satchel. "If this spreads, you'll be dead before dawn."
His jaw tightened. "Then let me die. Better me than—"
"Stop," she snapped, surprising herself. Her voice cracked like fire in the night. "You're not going to die. Not tonight."
And with that, she laid her hands over the wound.
A golden glow burst from her palms, warm and fierce, spilling into the prince's torn flesh. His eyes widened, his breath caught, but he did not pull away. The poison writhed beneath his skin, hissing, resisting her power. Sweat beaded her brow as she pushed harder, letting her secret flow freely.
The gift she had sworn never to reveal.
The magic that marked her not just as a healer—but as something else.
Something dangerous.
The shadows hissed one final time before dissolving into smoke. Kael collapsed against her shoulder, breath ragged. The golden glow dimmed, leaving only the night.
Isolde's hands shook. Her secret was no longer hers alone.
The prince had seen.
And nothing in Aeloria would ever be the same again.