The curse did not begin as punishment.
It began as a mercy.
Centuries ago, when Lorenzo's bloodline stood on the edge of annihilation, the first Sovereign sought salvation from something older than kingdoms and far more patient than time itself.
The chronicles name her only as the Mother Py.
She answered.
To the king, she granted gifts beyond mortal design.
Strength doubled first.
Pain dulled, then faded.
Senses sharpened.
Wounds closed too quickly, skin knitting as if it remembered wholeness.
Age slowed, reluctant to claim him.
Victory followed.
The war was won.
The land pacified.
And then came the price.
The Mother asked for only one thing: his firstborn.
When the time came, the king refused.
Drunk on his borrowed power, terrified of surrendering his heir, he turned those same gifts against her. He hunted the Mother Py as one would hunt an animal already wounded. And when she finally fell, her death did not come quietly.
As she perished, she spoke a curse that clung to the king's blood like a living thing.
Not upon his sons.
But upon his daughters.
Upon every woman born of the House of Sforza.
All daughters would have his gifts but would also have a hunger.
They would feed on those they loved most.
And with every drop consumed, the curse deepens.
Power grows.
Strength sharpens.
Humanity thins.
The more they drink, the less human they become.
For generations, the response was simple.
Daughters were killed at birth.
Their power had not yet awakened
Then Lorenzo was born.
Her grandfather stood over the cradle and could not do it.
She was the last memory of his elder so, Ludovico, who had died during an attempted murder.
The child was quiet. Dark-haired. Perfectly ordinary. And for the first time in centuries, the blade did not fall.
Instead, he chose deception.
By cruel fortune, or divine mockery, Orlo, his younger son's wife gave birth to a child the same night. A son. Healthy. Loud. Everything the crown demanded.
The exchange was swift, sealed in silence since Lorenzo's mother, lady Catherina Orsini didn't make it.
The boy was presented as the heir. The girl was passed off as her uncle's son, second in line to the throne.
He did the naming ceremony and entrusted her to Marcello, her true father's loyal brother-in-arms, the right hand of Ludovico, the Magnificent.
He never looked at or care for her. He was simply glad his son would ascend as emperor, because he could not. He was a drunk. A cruel and ambitious man.
Marcello knew the truth of the exchange.
He knew she was the rightful heiress. He knew her life would be lived behind a mask, her crown worn by another.
But his knowledge of the curse was fractured, passed to him in haste by a dying emperor, her grandfather. What he was told had been stripped of its horror. He was given fragments.
He knew the benefits.
The strength. The endurance. The slowed aging. The resilience that made a ruler unbreakable.
He knew there would be bloodlust.
But he never knew its shape.
If she was to survive, she would need to be strong. And clever. And unreachable.
As soon as she was old enough to walk, she was taken from the estate her so-called father, Orlo Sforza, had established for her after the naming ceremony, his last, reluctant kindness.
She was sent to the garrison where Marcello was stationed and appointed Master Commander.
The child was quiet. Obedient. She learned diligently, absorbed instruction like water into dry earth. She was painfully shy, slow to make friends, observant to a fault.
By seven, she could shoot and fence with precision beyond her years.
Yet she could never reach her full potential.
She fought to defend but never to finish.
She hesitated. She held back.
It left her injured often. Bruised. Cut. Beaten.
And she endured and healed at a pace that unsettled even seasoned soldiers.
By ten, her mind had turned sharper than any blade.
She mastered diplomacy and politics as easily as strategy. Merchants sought her counsel. Negotiations bent around her will without her ever raising her voice. She listened. Always listened. And people trusted her because of it.
Then came the accident.
During training, a boy misjudged his strike and drove a blade into her hand.
He dropped to his knees in terror.
Not caring for herself, she rushed to him, cradling his shaking shoulders, whispering reassurances. She promised him she would not allow punishment. That it had been an accident.
In truth, harming a member of the royal blood was treason.
The boy would be hanged for that.
She was taken to Marcello's office without a sound. No tears.
When the door was barred and they were alone, Marcello reached for bandages and alcohol.
She pulled the knife free herself.
The flesh sealed beneath their eyes leaving a scar.
She frowned, more annoyed than afraid.
That night, she asked him why she had to pretend to be a man. Why pain touched her less as she grew. Why her body obeyed laws others did not.
Marcello told her everything.
She listened. Nodded once.
Then said calmly that she accepted her fate.
She asked only two things of him:
Protect her secret.
Protect the crown.
Marcello began with her body.
Seeds were given to suppress what nature would claim, womanhood delayed, curves denied.
Her pants were fitted with padding that mimicked manhood.
The illusion was complete. He trained her mercilessly. Forced her to fight ten opponents at once. Took her into real campaigns against bandits and rebels. Let her learn death not as theory, but as consequence. And when she was ready, at fifteen years old, he brought her to the court of Italy.
Before she left, she requested Marcello to have something more. She'd known from a very young age that she loved women. Marcello agreed and immediately had it commissioned. He understood that If she was to live as a man, she can at least choose how to. A prosthetic was commissioned in secret, thin wood skilfully attached to a leather strap, covered in rubber to give it weight and flexibility. She used it only on special occasion.