Prologue:
369 Words
THE SOLDIERS pushed open the massive wooden doors, their hinges groaning as though they carried the weight of centuries. A suffocating darkness greeted the Alpha King as he stepped into the prison, a place carved not only of stone but of despair itself. His boots struck the cold floor in slow, deliberate rhythm, each echo bouncing off the walls and colliding with the metallic clink of his guards’ armor. The torches fixed along the corridor spat and flickered, their flames struggling against the stale air, casting shadows that writhed like specters across the walls.
He halted before a cell. At his presence, the guard hurriedly unlocked it, the iron door creaking open in submission. The Alpha entered without hesitation, his imposing figure consuming the space.
There, chained against the wall, knelt a woman. Her head drooped, strands of hair concealing her face, wrists and ankles bound tightly by cruel iron shackles that bit into her skin. Her breath rattled in her chest—labored, uneven, as though each inhale was a battle. The torchlight revealed her condition: her body marred with blood, bruises painting her skin in shades of agony. She was broken in body, but not yet in spirit.
The Alpha King’s gaze lingered for a moment, unreadable, like the silent frost of a winter night. He turned then, cloak sweeping behind him, prepared to leave as though she were nothing more than a forgotten wretch.
But then, the silence fractured.
Her voice rose—not strong, but sharp, hoarse with pain yet laced with defiance, as though venom bled through every word.
“Mark my words… the very coldness in your eyes will be the reason for your downfall, Alpha.”
He froze mid-step. The air seemed to shudder. For an instant, his eyes darkened, a storm flickering behind their icy surface. It was gone just as quickly, replaced by the mask of indifference that made kings untouchable. Yet the weight of her words pressed upon the chamber, heavier than chains, heavier than the silence his guards dared not break.
And though no one spoke of it, every man in that corridor felt it: the prisoner’s curse had been planted, and its roots would one day grow.
- Writer
