The Crown's Curse

The gods do not speak to orphans. But they burn through them. The scent of smoke clung to her skin long before the veil did. They scrubbed her clean in freezing water, poured oils down her back like melted gold, then wrapped her in silk the color of blood. Not crimson. Not ruby. But the deep, dried kind—like something buried beneath the throne she was meant to kneel before. No one said her name. Because she had none. The girls who dressed her didn’t meet her eyes. Only the oldest — her hands trembling with age or guilt — dared whisper as she tied the ceremonial belt tight around her waist. > “He wears a crown,” the old woman murmured, knotting the red cord, “but walks like a ghost.” The orphan girl said nothing. Words had never saved her. This wedding was no celebration. It was a sentence. Drums pounded like war. Priests chanted in a language no one understood anymore. And at the center of it all, she stood alone on scorched earth—the black-stone dais where kings were crowned… and traitors were burned. Then he arrived. The prince. A shadow pulled from firelight. Tall. Silent. Cloaked in gold-trimmed black. His face hidden beneath a thin royal mask, carved with symbols of power, grief, and restraint. When he spoke, his voice was cold enough to silence the wind. > “I bind myself to the will of the Crown. I take the flame before me as bride, as blade, as burden.” Her voice trembled as she echoed: > “I take the flame…” The vow was said to be tradition — a relic of power. But the heat rising behind her eyes said otherwise. That night, in her new chamber, she sat stiff in silk she dared not wrinkle. She stared at the unlit candles. Not one of them was burning. Until they were. All at once—without touch, without spark—the wicks came alive. Whisper-thin flames danced across every candle in the room. Her fingertips glowed faintly. > No, no, no… not now. The fire inside her—the one she had buried in orphan kitchens and temple ruins—had stirred. It was awake. And she was not alone anymore.