The wedding bells rang across the kingdom, but there was no joy on the bride's face.
Princess Elira Valenor, the sole heir of the Kingdom of Tangoo, stood before the altar in a wedding gown the colour of pale bone. Not white, not ivory—bone. As if it had been sewn for a funeral rather than a celebration.
Opposite her stood her groom, Duke Raven Ashthore, the infamous "Shadow Duke" of the North. His eyes were black as a starless night, his presence colder than the winter wind, and his face unreadable—a blank canvas hiding untold secrets.
"With this vow, you are now husband and wife."
The applause was sparse, more out of obligation than celebration. No one smiled. Not even the queen—Elira's mother—whose clenched hands betrayed the grief in her heart.
They all knew the truth.
Elira was CURSED.
On the eve of her twenty-first birthday, her life would end. That was the prophecy spoken by the royal oracle five years ago. Since then, the world had grown colder. Suitors had withdrawn their proposals. Friends had drifted away. Her father, the king, had sought a last-ditch alliance—and only one man had accepted.
The man no one else dared to approach.
There were whispers. That Raven had buried two wives. That shadows followed wherever he walked. That he had made a pact with the darkness itself.
But Elira wasn't afraid of death.
She was afraid she wouldn't have enough time… to truly live.
"From today," Raven's voice was low, his tone unreadable, "you will reside at Ashthore Castle. Be prepared."
Their eyes met, and for a brief moment—just a fleeting heartbeat—she saw something behind his cold gaze.
Not malice. Not darkness.
But sorrow.
Or perhaps… that too was an illusion.
Before Elira could speak, the skies darkened. Clouds churned, and the wind grew sharp and cruel.
The curse was awakening.
The sudden chill bit into Elira's bare shoulders, making her flinch as the wind howled through the grand cathedral. The guests stirred uncomfortably, their eyes lifted toward the heavens, where thunder rolled like a warning drum. Candles flickered. The stained-glass windows rattled in their frames.
Raven moved first. Without a word, he stepped forward and took her gloved hand. His touch was cold, like river stone in the moonlight, but steady.
"We leave now," he said, not unkindly, but without room for refusal.
The royal guards tensed, but Queen Seraphina gave a slight nod. Her face remained composed, but Elira caught the glint of tears in her mother's eyes. She wanted to run to her, to wrap her arms around the woman who had protected her for so long—but duty was a wall she could not climb.
Instead, she let Raven lead her out of the cathedral.
Outside, the royal carriage awaited, black with silver trim, pulled by horses as pale as ash. As they climbed in, the first drops of rain began to fall—soft at first, then harsher, like needles against the earth.
Inside the carriage, silence reigned.
Elira stole glances at her new husband. His posture was stiff, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of a dagger at his hip. His face remained impassive, yet she sensed something beneath it—tension, perhaps. Or regret.
"You don't have to pretend," she said softly, breaking the silence. "I know why you married me."
Raven turned to her, slowly. His eyes met hers, black and endless.
"Do you?" he asked.
Elira held his gaze. "Because no one else would."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he looked away, out the rain-slicked window.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "or perhaps… because I've danced with death before, and I no longer fear the music."
The carriage rolled onward, carrying the cursed princess and the shadow duke into the unknown.
Far behind them, thunder cracked—louder this time. And deep within Elira's chest, something stirred.
Not fear.Not dread.
Something older.Something waiting.