Chapter 2 – The King's Curse
The eastern wing of the palace was silent as a tomb.
Elara's footsteps echoed faintly across the marble floor, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the heavy curtains of shadow that clung to every wall. The guard leading her moved with a stiffness that made her uneasy, his armor whispering softly with every step.
When they reached a tall arched doorway, he stopped abruptly. "You'll stay here," he said, his voice low and strained, as if speaking too loudly might wake something best left sleeping.
Then he opened the door and motioned her inside.
The room beyond was vast—too vast for comfort. A canopy bed stood near the far window, its curtains sheer and black. Candles floated in the air without flame, burning with pale silver light that cast long, shifting shadows. There were no mirrors, no portraits, no warmth.
"This is… where I'll stay?" Elara asked hesitantly.
The soldier didn't answer. He placed a small silver key on the table and left without another word, closing the door behind him.
For a moment, she stood in the center of the room, surrounded by silence. Then she let out a long breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Her fingers brushed the stone wall—cold, pulsing faintly beneath her touch. Like a heartbeat.
The palace was alive. She could feel it.
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the whisper of wind outside her window… but there was no wind. The curtains didn't move.
When she opened her eyes, the shadows seemed to shift, like liquid smoke crawling across the floor.
Elara sat up sharply. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Then—a flicker. A faint pulse of red light at the far end of the room. The mark of the royal crest glowed briefly before fading again.
Her breath quickened. Something wasn't right.
She rose quietly from the bed, her bare feet silent on the cold floor, and approached the window. From there, she could see the courtyard below—empty except for the black fountains that gurgled with something far too dark to be water. The moon hung above them, impossibly red, bleeding light onto the palace walls.
And in the reflection of the glass—she saw it.
A shape. Standing behind her.
Tall. Unmoving. A shadow with eyes like embers.
She spun around—heart hammering—but the room was empty.
Far away, in the heart of the palace, Lucien sat alone on his throne.
His eyes were half-lidded, his expression unreadable, but his mind was anything but calm.
For the first time in centuries, the curse stirred differently. The hunger was quieter tonight, its whispers scattered and faint. Normally, they filled the hall—endless voices crying, pleading, promising power in exchange for his soul.
But tonight, silence.
And her face.
Lucien lifted his hand again, staring at the glove he still hadn't removed. It was foolish, he thought, to even remember the touch of that mortal girl. And yet…
The darkness coiled around him, forming indistinct figures that bowed and murmured. The court of shadows—his eternal companions, born from the curse itself.
"Why does she linger in your mind, my king?" one whispered. Its voice slithered like smoke.
Lucien didn't answer.
"She's different," murmured another, its shape rippling with amusement. "The curse recoils from her. Perhaps she is the key."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "There is no key. Only control."
The shadows hissed and sank back into the walls, leaving him alone once more.
He stood, crossing the hall with slow, deliberate steps, until he reached a mirror made of black glass. His reflection flickered—sometimes his face, sometimes the thing beneath it. The cursed creature that once devoured kingdoms.
He placed a hand against the surface. The reflection grinned—a cruel, twisted smile.
"You're slipping," it whispered. "You feel again. You remember."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "I do not remember," he said coldly. "I endure."
But even as he turned away, the reflection laughed, its voice echoing through the empty throne room.
Elara awoke to a knock at the door.
She opened her eyes to find faint morning light spilling across the floor. The floating candles were gone. The air was still heavy, but less suffocating than the night before.
When she opened the door, a woman stood there—young, but with eyes far too old. Her uniform was plain gray, her hands folded neatly before her.
"Good morning, Lady Elara," she said softly. "His Majesty requests your presence at breakfast."
"Breakfast?" Elara repeated, uncertain. "With… the King?"
The maid bowed slightly. "Yes. It is… rare."
The woman's tone sent a chill down Elara's spine, but she followed nonetheless.
They passed corridors lined with dark paintings—faces of past kings, all wearing the same crown, the same hollow stare. Some of the portraits seemed to watch her as she walked by.
Finally, they reached a chamber flooded with dim crimson light. The ceiling arched high above, carved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly.
At the far end of a long obsidian table sat Lucien. Alone.
He didn't look up as she entered, though she felt his presence the way one feels the chill before a storm.
"Sit," he said.
She hesitated, then obeyed, her eyes flicking to the silver goblet in front of her. It shimmered faintly, filled with something dark and smooth.
Lucien finally raised his gaze. "You didn't sleep."
It wasn't a question.
Elara blinked. "How—how do you know?"
"The palace knows," he replied. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "It listens."
"That's… not comforting," she muttered.
To her surprise, the faintest curve touched his lips. Not quite a smile—more like a ghost of one. "No, I suppose not."
He lifted his goblet and drank, the movement elegant, practiced. "Tell me, Elara. Do you understand why you were chosen?"
"I was told it was an honor," she said. "A tribute to the crown."
Lucien's gaze darkened. "Honor is a lie mortals tell themselves when they have no choice."
The words hung between them like smoke.
"What are we tributes for?" she asked quietly. "No one ever says."
Lucien's expression didn't change, but the air around him grew heavier. "You ask dangerous questions."
"Because they're forbidden?" she pressed. "Or because you don't want to answer?"
For a long time, he said nothing. Then he rose, the light bending faintly around him. "Because the truth would break you."
He turned away, walking toward the tall windows that overlooked the crimson courtyard. "Eat. You'll need your strength. Tonight, you will see what your village has given you to."
Her voice trembled despite her courage. "And what have they given me to?"
Lucien's eyes met hers—dark, ancient, filled with a sorrow she couldn't name.
"To me," he said simply.
And as the last word fell from his lips, the room dimmed, the torches flickering as if the shadows themselves bowed before him.