The air folds in around us. Not wind. Not magic. Something older. Denser. A hush that presses against my skin like wet velvet, full of tension and the taste of ancient things. He's taller than I imagined, made of angles and shadow, with eyes like eclipses, dark centers rimmed in silver light.
I want to move. I want to speak. But all I can do is stare.
"You came," the feeling hums again. Stronger this time. Not a voice exactly, but something buried beneath the layers of silence. And somehow, I know it's him, Kael.
Prince of the Shadow Court. Cursed heir. The one no one dares to touch.
He stands just a few steps away now, close enough that the air between us crackles like lightning before a storm. His cloak shifts with the shadows, stitched from night itself, the fabric whispering against the cold stone beneath us. And his face, pale, grim, carved from something older than stone, remains unreadable. Beautiful in a terrifying, ancient way. Like a statue meant to warn rather than worship.
And cold. So cold.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My tongue feels thick. My throat is dry. His eyes lock on mine, then flicker down to my hands. To my wrist. The mark still glows faintly under the skin, an unnatural shimmer pulsing like a heartbeat.
"You're bound," he says at last. His voice is smoke and winter, quiet but sharp enough to slice.
"I didn't agree," I whisper, lifting my chin.
He tilts his head, just a little. "The magic did."
I clench my jaw. Of course it did. The ancient magic tied to the treaty never cared for permission. It just... chose.
"I won't be your wife," I say, louder this time.
His lips don't move, but something flashes behind his eyes. Power. Annoyance, maybe. It's hard to tell with him.
"Then survive the year," he says simply.
It hits like a slap. "What?"
"One year. You live in the palace. Play your part. If you survive, the bond can be severed. If not…"
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
I fold my arms. "So it's a test?"
"It's a warning," he replies.
I narrow my eyes. "Fine. But if I'm staying here, I want a room with windows."
He blinks, thrown off just slightly. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I take a bold step forward. "And I don't eat anything with eyeballs. Or tentacles."
His face remains stoic, but the shadows around him shift uneasily. I press on, ignoring the way my heart thunders.
"Oh, and I'll need extra blankets. And books. And if you expect me to dress like one of your shadow brides, forget it. I'm not wearing anything made from feathers or bones."
"You think this is a game?" he asks, voice low and dangerous now.
"I think," I say, with a bright, false smile, "if I'm going to be trapped here, I might as well make myself comfortable. And annoying."
For a moment, silence stretches between us, thick and electric. Then unexpectedly, something flickers across his face. Not quite amusement. But close. The corner of his mouth twitches, barely.
"Comfort will not protect you," he says.
"No," I reply. "But sarcasm might."
He turns, the folds of his cloak brushing against the floor like whispers of a forgotten prayer. "You'll find that neither will help you here, girl of the borderlands."
"I have a name," I call after him.
He pauses at the threshold of the dark corridor. Doesn't turn.
"I know," he says.
And then he's gone.
I exhale, heart still racing. That wasn't courage. That was stupidity dressed in defiance. But it bought me a few moments where I didn't feel so powerless.
I look down at my wrist, the glow finally fading into a dull throb beneath my skin.
One year.
Just one year.
The hallway stretches before me like a spine, long, cold, and dimly lit by lanterns that burn with a pale blue flame. Their light flickers strangely, casting shadows that slither more than they settle. Every few steps, I glance behind me, half-expecting the walls to shift or the floor to vanish beneath my feet.
They don't.
But the silence feels like it's watching me.
A servant leads the way, a woman cloaked in gray, face hidden beneath a dark veil. She doesn't speak. Not once. Only gestures when I pause, as if the palace has a rhythm of its own and I've already stepped out of sync.
The floors are polished obsidian. The walls, carved with ancient markings that glow faintly when we pass. I swear one of them hums as I get too close, like it recognizes me, or wants something.
We pass doors of every shape and color. One breathes frost, even though it's shut tight. Other pulses faintly like a heartbeat. Another has whispers leaking through its cracks, so faint I can't tell if they're words or wind.
"This place is cursed," I mutter under my breath.
The servant pauses. Just slightly. Enough for me to wonder if she heard me. Enough for me to wonder if everything in this palace hears.
Then we arrive.
My room is… not what I expected.
The door creaks open to reveal a space bathed in moonlight. There's a wide-arched window overlooking a garden shrouded in silver mist. The walls are deep green, carved with vines that look almost real. A large bed sits in the corner, covered in velvet and fur, and beside it are books. Stacks of them. Old, strange, beautiful.
A basin of warm water waits by a carved wooden table. There's even a fire crackling in the hearth, though I didn't hear anyone light it.
The servant steps aside to let me in, then closes the door behind me without a word.
I take a cautious step forward. Then another.
It smells like wild mint and something older, earth after rain. The bed is too soft when I press a hand into it, and the books practically beg to be opened. Titles in languages I can't read. Covers made of leather, bark, or something that might be skin.
I shiver.
There's a wardrobe too. When I open it, I find dresses hung neatly inside. Not the feathered bone-draped monstrosities I feared, but still… strange. Deep jewel tones. Silks that shift color when I move. One of them hums under my fingers like it's breathing.
"I'm not wearing that," I whisper to the wardrobe.
It doesn't answer. But I swear it listens.
I step back and go to the window instead. The garden below is quiet, except for the rustle of something moving behind the trees. Nothing I can see, just a presence. The air smells different here. Charged. Like the forest is holding its breath.
One year.
I press my hand to the cold glass. Somewhere in this palace, the cursed prince is watching. Waiting. Maybe even listening.
But I'm not afraid of him.
Not yet.
And if he thinks he can break me, he'll have to try harder.
The border may have claimed me. But my will is still my own.
And I don't plan to survive this year.
I plan to win it.