The Curse Begins
1793 Words
The smell of hay and horse sweat wrapped around her like a second skin.
Elara slumped against the stable wall, legs pulled to her chest, eyes stinging from the cold. Her breath came in short gasps. Not from the run. From the aftermath.
She’d hit him.
She’d really hit him.
Cassian’s blood was probably still on the bucket.
For a moment—one small, blazing moment—she’d fought back. And gods, it had felt good. Like something inside her had cracked open and roared.
Now, the weight of it was starting to settle.
He’ll come for you tonight. Miranda will let him. Maybe this time, they’ll really finish the job.
A part of her wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to cry.
Instead, she just… stared.
The stables were quiet. Horses shifted in their stalls, snorting gently, their warmth the only kindness left in this place.
A soft nuzzle touched her arm. The mare—old and greying—pressed her snout into Elara’s side like she remembered her.
Elara reached up slowly and touched the mare’s nose.
“Hey,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You still here, too?”
The horse blinked at her, ears twitching.
“You’re luckier than me,” she murmured. “No one expects you to bleed for a crown.”
She sat there for what felt like hours.
Letting the cold seep into her bones.
Letting the quiet numb the bruises.
Trying not to think about what would happen when the sun set.
They’re sending you to the Lycan King. To die.
She clenched her fists, silver cuffs biting into her wrists.
Except—no.
That wasn’t quite true, was it?
They weren’t sending her.
They were sending Lyra.
Or at least, the lie of Lyra Wynn. Wrapped in Elara’s broken body. Painted in her bruises. No one would know the difference until it was too late.
And what then?
She didn’t have an answer.
But she knew one thing:
She wasn’t going to beg.
Not for mercy. Not for survival. Not for anyone.
If death came for her in that cursed palace, it would have to fight.
A chill rolled through her—not from the air, but from somewhere inside.
Deep, slow, ancient.
Her hands trembled, and not from fear. More like her body was vibrating, like something beneath her skin was waking up. Whispering.
Remember who you are.
She didn’t know where that voice came from. It wasn’t hers.
But it felt true.
The mare beside her neighed suddenly, stamping the ground once—sharp, alert.
And then—footsteps.
Boots. Heavy. Coming fast.
Elara stood before she even knew she’d moved.
The stable door burst open. Two guards stepped in, silver armor glinting like teeth in the moonlight.
“Get the girl,” one grunted.
"It’s time."
She didn’t fight them. Not this time.
They shackled her again, tighter than before. Shoved her toward the black carriage waiting beyond the barn.
As they pushed her forward, Elara didn’t look back.
Not at the house. Not at the cold hearth that never warmed her. Not at the place that tried to kill her in a thousand small ways.
Instead, she looked up.
The moon had risen. Full. Cold. Watching.
They didn’t bother with ceremony.
Just two guards, a rusted iron carriage, and silver cuffs too tight around her wrists.
Elara was shoved inside like freight—no words, no goodbye. Just the scrape of metal and the echo of the door slamming shut.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t scream.
She just sat in the cold, her knees pulled to her chest, cloak barely enough to fight off the night air. Her ribs still ached from the last time Cassian had kicked her. Her knuckles were sore from hitting him back.
Worth it.
But now?
Now the weight of what was coming pressed in like smoke. Thick. Suffocating.
“I’m not Lyra. They’ll know. They’ll kill me.”
Her thoughts spiraled, sharp and relentless.
She wasn’t bred for this.
She didn’t know how to curtsy, how to flirt, how to beg for her life with a smile. She had no grace, no jewels, no noble bloodline to flaunt. Just bruises and scars and a pair of mismatched eyes that made people whisper freak behind her back.
“They’ll smell the lie. They’ll smell me.”
But beneath the fear, something strange simmered.
A flicker of warmth deep in her chest, low and slow—like coals waiting for breath.
It pulsed softly against her ribs. Hot, ancient, alive.
Not fear.
Instinct.
Outside the carriage, the woods whispered.
Pines blurred past in skeletal shapes. Mist crept low along the forest floor like fingers searching for lost things.
And in the trees… a raven.
Black as pitch. Unblinking.
It perched on a crooked branch as the carriage rolled past. Watching her.
Elara met its gaze through the barred window, and for a moment—it felt like the world stilled. Like the creature knew something she didn’t.
“She’s not the one,” muttered one of the guards outside.
“She’ll be dead in a day.”
The raven blinked once.
Then took flight.
They didn’t stop all night.
She didn’t sleep.
Just sat in the dark, shackled, heart pounding with something she couldn’t name. Something primal. Like her blood knew where they were going—and wasn’t afraid.
She expected to feel terror.
But what she felt was stranger.
Readiness.
The sun was just beginning to rise when the carriage slowed.
The woods had vanished, replaced by sprawling snowfields and jagged cliffs. In the distance, carved into the mountainside like a wound, stood a fortress.
Black stone. Massive gates. Spires that pierced the clouds.
It looked less like a palace and more like a prison made for gods.
The Lycan King lives here, her mind whispered.
And so do his victims.
The guards pulled her from the carriage roughly, dragging her forward as a bitter wind howled through the courtyard. Her bare feet slipped on ice. She didn’t complain.
She wouldn’t give them that.
Massive iron doors creaked open ahead.
Torches lit the entryway in gold and shadow.
And then she saw him.
Kael Virek.
The cursed king.
He stood at the top of the stairs, surrounded by armored guards—but it didn’t matter. No one looked at them.
Only him.
He didn’t wear a crown. Didn’t need one.
Tall. Broad. Midnight-black hair tousled by the wind. Grey eyes that burned like storms. And tattoos—strange, ancient markings that curled down his arms like living shadows.
He watched her like a wolf scenting blood.
Elara’s breath caught.
The bond didn’t hit her. Not yet.
But something shifted.
Inside her.
Inside him.
The guard shoved her forward. She stumbled, landed hard on her knees.
Kael didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
And then—he stepped down.
Each footfall echoed like thunder.
The guards around him flinched.
He stopped a foot from her, towering.
“Name,” he growled.
Elara opened her mouth.
Her lips parted.
And then—
The warmth in her chest flared white-hot.
He stiffened.
His breath hitched.
His hand reached forward—hesitated—then gripped her chin.
She didn’t burn.
A whisper ran through the guards.
Kael’s eyes widened, golden flecks erupting in the grey.
He inhaled again. Sharply.
“You…” he rasped. “What are you?”
Elara met his gaze, head high.
And for the first time in her life, she didn’t answer to anyone.
Not even a king.
The great hall emptied on command. One sharp look from Kael, and every guard turned tail. They didn’t question him. No one did.
Now it was just her.
Elara stayed kneeling, silver cuffs biting into her skin, heart thudding like war drums. But she didn’t look down. Not anymore.
Kael paced before her like a caged predator, fingers twitching like he didn’t trust his own body.
“You should be dead.”
His voice was low, rough-edged. Not shocked. Not curious. Just… angry.
“Maybe I’m already a ghost,” she replied dryly. “You’d hardly be the first man to make me feel invisible.”
He turned sharply to glare at her.
“Don’t play games with me.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” she said. “You think I want to be here?”
A second passed.
Then another.
“Why aren’t you burning?” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
“I could ask the same thing. You’re supposed to be a monster.”
His gaze snapped to hers.
“I am.”
Elara’s lip curled.
“You don't scare me.”
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “Everyone fears me.”
“Not me.”
She stood, shakily, silver cuffs dragging down her arms. The pain was sharp—but sadistically she liked it and enjoyed the pleasure it gave. It reminded her she was still here.
Still real.
Kael stared down at her like he couldn’t decide whether to strike or kneel.
“You smell like power. Old power.”
“Maybe I bathed in dragon blood before the trip.”
“Your name.”
“Lyra Wynn.”
He growled.
“Lie.”
She smiled. “How’d you guess?”
“Because you don’t cower like a noble brat. And you’re not stupid enough to wear another girl’s scent. So tell me—who are you, really?”
Elara inhaled slowly. Her heart wanted to scream her real name. Her pride did not.
“No one,” she said.
“Try again.”
“A girl sold to die.”
“You didn’t die.”
“Yet.”
He was close now. Too close. Her instincts screamed to run, but something deeper—a hum under her skin—held her in place.
“What are you?” he whispered.
“What are you?” she shot back.
Silence.
Then—softly:
“Cursed.
That one word cracked something in her. A splinter of recognition. Of shared damage.
“Then maybe we’re not so different,” she said.
“You think I’m like you?” His voice dipped dangerously low. “Do you have blood on your hands, girl? Have you buried your own soul to survive a spell that eats your skin from the inside out? Do you wake every night to screams that never came from your mouth?”
Elara didn’t flinch. “No. But I’ve screamed without making a sound. So I think that counts.”
Another long pause.
Kael stared like he was seeing her for the first time—not the bruises, not the mismatched eyes. Her.
And Elara, for the first time, wasn’t entirely sure she hated the way it felt.
- Writer
