I stopped sleeping.
Every free moment, I was in the forbidden archives—dusty shelves, cracked spines, books no one wanted remembered. Stories of curses passed down like warnings, each one ending the same way.
Love demanded payment.
I found it just before dawn, in a book bound in black leather, its pages stiff as if soaked in old blood.
The curse binds not to the lover, but to the crown.
I read the line again.
And again.
Royal blood. Royal privilege. Royal protection.
The witch had not cursed me.
She had cursed the throne that had cast her aside.
The deaths were not punishment for love.
They were payment for power.
My hands trembled as I read the final line:
Only when the cursed relinquishes what was never rightfully earned will the spell be broken.
I closed the book and understood.
The throne had to go.