The Summons
The knock came at dusk, because apparently the palace had a flair for dramatic timing.
Sharp. Impatient. The kind of knock that said we both know you're coming, so let's not pretend otherwise.
I was elbow-deep in the world's most boring trade document, something about grain taxes that made me want to stab myself with my own quill, when my door practically rattled off its hinges.
"Seraphina Vale." The guard didn't even wait for me to fully open the door. "Inner hall. Now."
"Good evening to you too," I muttered, but he was already turning away.
Fantastic.
I closed the door and pressed my forehead against it, taking exactly three seconds to have a quiet panic attack. Whatever this was, it wasn't good. The palace didn't summon nobodies like me unless someone needed a scapegoat or a sacrifice.
Or both.
The thing living under my skin, the magic I'd spent years pretending didn't exist stirred like a cat waking from a nap. Warm. Curious. Wildly inappropriate timing.
Not now, I told it silently. Behave yourself.
It purred in response, which was concerning on multiple levels.
By the time I reached the inner hall, the whole place had gone full gothic drama mode. Low torches. Shadows everywhere. The air smelled like someone had burned incense to cover up the scent of bad decisions.
And there, standing in the center like he'd personally offended the concept of color, was Prince Caelan Thorne.
All black. Head to toe. Brooding so hard I could practically hear violins.
I'd seen him before-everyone in Blackthorn had. You didn't exactly miss six feet of dark-haired, sharp-jawed, criminally beautiful man glaring his way through the palace corridors. But seeing him up close was different.
He looked like danger wrapped in velvet. Like a warning you'd ignore anyway.
When his eyes found mine, something flickered there. Not kindness-definitely not that. Something darker. Hotter.
Recognition, maybe.
Or hunger.
My stomach did a very inconvenient flip.
"Step forward," commanded the High Seer, a woman who looked like she gargled nails for breakfast.
I stepped forward because self-preservation had apparently left the building.
"This is ridiculous," the prince said suddenly, his voice low and edged with irritation. "She's nobody."
Ouch. But also... fair?
"Nobody," the Seer said with a smile that could curdle milk, "is exactly what we need."
Oh, hell.
I finally got it. This wasn't about translating documents or running errands.
This was about me becoming collateral damage.
The ritual circle was carved into the floor, all ancient and ominous and definitely not up to code. They guided me into it with hands that wouldn't meet my eyes-never a good sign.
The prince followed, looking like he wanted to punch something. Possibly me. Possibly the universe.
When the circle lit up, every hair on my body stood at attention.
The magic I'd been sitting on for years perked up like it had just heard its favorite song. Oh no, I thought. Not now. Not here.
The Seer started chanting in a language that sounded like it came from a time when people thought bleeding yourself was good healthcare.
Then my wrist exploded.
Not literally-but it felt like it. Heat and ice and something alive crawled across my skin, burning a mark into my flesh. I gasped, biting back a very undignified yelp.
A bond mark. Glowing. Intricate. Absolutely not coming off with soap and water.
The prince swore a creative string of words I'd have to remember for later and reached for my arm.
The second his skin touched mine, the world tilted.
Heat slammed through me like I'd been struck by lightning made of pure want. It curled low in my belly, raced up my spine, and settled in places that had no business getting involved in magical rituals.
I sucked in a breath. So did he.
Our eyes locked.
For the first time, his expression cracked. Shock. Confusion. And underneath it all, something that made my knees forget how to work.
The curse sealed with a sound like a heartbeat echoing through stone, or maybe that was just my pulse trying to escape my body.
"It is done," the Seer announced, looking far too pleased with herself. "The curse has chosen."
The prince stared at me like I'd personally ruined his entire decade.
Maybe I had.
But here's what nobody in that room knew:
The magic clawing its way up my spine wasn't just fear.
It was waking up. Stretching. Getting interested.
And if the curse thought it could chain itself to me?
Well.
It had just bound itself to the one person powerful enough and petty enough to burn it all down.
Starting with the prince's absolutely insufferable attitude.
Because nothing says "happily ever after," like being magically married to a man who thinks you're nobody... right before you show him exactly how wrong he is.