The kingdom of Nyxeria had long whispered of its monarch, King Malion—the Mad King.
It was said he burned through wives like parchment in flame, each one vanishing within a year of her coronation. Some claimed poison; others muttered curses. Yet none dared to speak too loudly, for the king's spies haunted every corner of the realm. And now, with his health waning, a new "bride selection" had been announced.
Aurelia never thought her name would be pushed forward.
Her older sister, fair and ambitious, had always been the family's jewel. If anyone was to stand as an offering to the Mad King, it should have been her. But fate was cruel—and her parents, crueler. Aurelia had overheard the hushed argument two nights ago: her sister's beauty must be preserved for a better match, they said, while Aurelia, dutiful and quiet, would do well enough to be sacrificed at court.
The decision had been made. Her fate sealed.
Or so they thought.
That evening, as the sun bled into the horizon and the household fell into the lull of routine, Aurelia scrubbed the last of the pots by the hearth. Her arms ached, but her mind burned with plans. She forced a smile when her mother ordered her to prepare herself for the selection week. She bowed her head when her father muttered about duty. She kept her voice steady when her sister teased her about catching the Mad King's eye.
But inside, Aurelia's heart beat like a war drum.
When the chores were finished and the house settled into silence, she retreated to her small chamber. Her disguise lay waiting: a coarse tunic, trousers, and a cloak she had stitched secretly from scraps. She bound her chest tightly with linen, stuffed her hair beneath a rough cap, and smeared a little soot on her cheeks to dull her features.
In the dim glow of her lamp, she looked nothing like Aurelia, the quiet daughter of a middling family. She looked like a wandering boy—thin, wiry, and unremarkable. Perfect.
She shoved a small bundle over her shoulder: dried bread, a waterskin, and the single keepsake from her grandmother, a string of beads she always carried. Then, with her heart lodged in her throat, she climbed onto the narrow sill of her chamber window.
The night air was cold and sharp. For a moment, she hesitated—her mind conjuring her mother's fury, her father's disappointment, her sister's mocking smile. But she refused to give them the satisfaction of watching her be led like a lamb to the slaughter.
She leapt.
Her boots hit the earth softly. Straightening her bundle, Aurelia did not look back. She slipped through the garden gate, crossed the pasture beyond, and followed the dirt track into the shadowed woods. The moon was a silver coin above, her only guide.
Hour after hour she walked, the branches clawing at her cloak, her breath steaming in the chill. Every crunch of leaves underfoot sounded too loud. Every snap of a twig made her whip around in fear. But the road behind her remained empty, and soon the torchlights of her village dwindled to nothing.
When she finally stumbled across the worn stone marking the border of her town, a laugh of relief escaped her lips. She pressed a hand to the cold rock, her chest heaving. "I made it," she whispered, tasting freedom for the first time.
But then—
"Aurelia."
The name cut through the night like a blade.
Her blood froze. Slowly, she turned.
A figure stepped from the shadows: tall, broad-shouldered, smugly familiar. Petros, the count's son. His smile gleamed wolfishly in the moonlight.
Aurelia swallowed hard and forced her voice into a low, rough rasp. "You must be mistaken, sir. I'm no Aurelia."
Petros laughed, the sound oily and triumphant. "Don't play games with me. Do you think I wouldn't recognize you? I've been following you since you left your house."
Her heart plummeted. He had been there? Watching her from the start?
"I…" she faltered, then dropped the act with a bitter sigh. "Fine. You caught me. Please, Petros, don't tell anyone. I just—I can't go to the palace. I don't want to marry the king. I'll do anything if you let me go."
He cocked his head, eyes glinting. "Anything?"
"Yes," she whispered.
A cruel smile curved his lips. "Good. Because you'll marry me instead of the mad king."
Aurelia's stomach churned. "What? No. I don't want to marry anyone—least of all you."
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. "Careful, Aurelia. Do you really want me to tell the guards I found you fleeing? Imagine the disgrace when they drag you back through the village."
Her throat tightened. She forced her expression into submission, masking her rage. "Fine," she said softly. "We can… talk about this. Let's just go back first."
But Petros's eyes darkened with hunger. "Not yet. First, I need assurance. How do I know you won't betray me later? No, Aurelia—you'll give me proof tonight."
His meaning was clear. Disgust rolled through her like bile. She jerked her wrist free, only for him to seize her again, stronger this time. "You're not going anywhere until I've had what I want," he sneered.
Unbeknownst to them both, a shadow sat high in the branches above, legs crossed, watching with mild amusement. The man's cloak rippled faintly in the breeze, his eyes sharp as they tracked Aurelia's every move. At first, he had been disappointed—thinking she might truly surrender to avoid the Mad King's fate. But when Petros grabbed her, his curiosity flared.
Aurelia acted before Petros could press closer. Twisting sharply, she drove her elbow into his gut, breaking his grip. She stepped back, breathing hard, her stance low and ready.
Petros chuckled through the pain. "So, the little lady knows how to fight? Imagine the village gossip when they learn sweet Aurelia trains with her fists."
"Better that than lying down for a pig like you," she spat.
He lunged. She dodged, swept her foot low, and sent him sprawling. He snarled, scrambling up, his fine clothes streaked with dirt. He struck clumsily, and she caught his arm, twisting it until he cried out. Their struggle was vicious, echoing through the quiet woods.
The figure in the tree leaned forward, eyes glittering with interest.
Finally, Aurelia drove her knee into Petros's chest and shoved him back. He landed hard, his leg twisting beneath him with a sickening crack. His scream tore through the night.
She stood over him, chest heaving, her cloak disheveled. "Stay down, Petros. Stop harassing girls. Get a life."
He writhed, clutching his leg, face twisted with hatred. She turned away, her bundle clutched tight. Tonight was cursed. She would have to rethink her escape, perhaps try again closer to the selection. For now, she needed to lay low.
She left him groaning in the dirt.
The figure in the tree finally dropped down, landing silently before striding to the broken noble. Petros looked up, pale and desperate. "Help me," he gasped. "I'm Count Daren's son—my father will reward you greatly."
The man crouched, not to help, but to pick something from the ground—the string of bead that had rolled from Aurelia's bundle during the scuffle. He turned it over in his hand, lips curving faintly.
Then, without a word, he stepped forward and drove his boot into Petros's chest. The crack echoed through the night. Petros choked, blood spraying from his mouth as he convulsed. His eyes bulged with disbelief, then glazed over with death.
The man straightened, twirling the bead between his fingers. "Interesting," he murmured to himself.
And then, like a shadow swallowed by the forest, he was gone.