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33. eldest daughter's curse
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌, but the cold radiating from them seeps into his skin, burrowing deep, settling in his bones. There is no comfort in their touch — only restraint. Control. A reminder that he is not his own anymore.
He should be afraid. Maybe he is. But fear feels distant now, washed away by the thick scent of burning wood and charred flesh. Death lingers in the air, and it smells like ash.
His knees drag against the stone floor, slick with his own blood. It smears in his wake, dark and glistening, a final, desperate mark upon this place. His strength left him long ago, drained with every wound, every blow, every whispered promise that this would end the way it always does.
The Queen does not tolerate defiance. She never has.
The throne room yawns before him, vast and endless, swallowing him whole. The towering obsidian walls drink in the light of the braziers, their eerie glow casting jagged shadows that stretch and twist like grasping hands. The fire flickers, its embers snapping and hissing like a beast restrained. It is the only sound. Even the guards are silent.
At the heart of it all, seated upon her throne, is the Queen.
She is draped in crimson, the color of fresh blood, of torn flesh and broken oaths. The color of inevitability. Her presence is a void, suffocating in its totality, warping the space around her. She does not move. Does not speak. She only watches.
He has seen men crumble under that gaze alone. He wonders if he will, too.
To her right sits the Prince.
The boy-king who will inherit a kingdom of nightmares. He is weak. Hesitant. He wears his fear like a shroud, draped across his shoulders, woven into the set of his jaw. His hands are folded tightly in his lap, knuckles pale with the force of his grip. He does not want to be here. The weight of it all sickens him.
And to the Queen’s left—
A tragedy. The Princess.
She is the one whispered about in the dark, the one whose name is spoken only in secret, only in hope. The one who might break the cycle. She was born different. Her father was not of this place, and her heart was not forged in its violence. She should not belong to the rot that festers in these halls.
And yet, here she sits.
She does not look at him. Her gaze is fixed on the floor, her hands curled into fists so tight they tremble. The firelight catches in her hair, gilding her in soft gold, but there is no warmth in her glow. Only something heavy. Restrained.
