The cursed prince

The letter arrived soaked in crimson wax and silence. Elira Drake turned it over in her fingers again, heart fluttering as she sat on the edge of her narrow bed. The seal—pressed with the royal crest of Virelia—seemed to stare back at her like a warning. She’d seen one just like it once, years ago, when the soldiers came for her mentor. The man who raised her. The one who never returned. Now, it had her name written in elegant ink, and beneath it, four words that chilled her blood: By Royal Order. Come Alone. Outside the thatched windows of her cottage, the wind howled through the dry hills of Greystone, pulling dust through the cracks in the wooden walls. The village was quiet. As always. Too quiet for the kind of news this letter brought. Elira’s fingers itched with unease. She had lived her entire life avoiding attention—just another healer’s apprentice in a forgotten town, helping to stitch wounds, draw poison, whisper quiet spells over broken bones. She had no last name that mattered. No bloodline to claim. Only her hands, her herbs, and the strange warmth that lived in her chest when she healed someone. But that warmth had grown stronger lately. Wilder. She could feel the pulse of it even now, dancing beneath her skin as if it sensed what was coming. She swallowed hard and broke the seal. To Elira Drake, By command of the Crown, you are hereby summoned to the Obsidian Palace to tend to His Highness, Prince Kael Virel. Your skill is required immediately. Payment and pardon for past offenses guaranteed upon arrival. Do not delay. There was no signature. No explanation. And no mention of why the palace—home of the cursed prince no healer had dared to touch in years—was suddenly reaching out to a no-name village girl. She folded the letter slowly. “Pardon for past offenses,” she whispered. The words were bait. She’d never committed a crime in her life… not officially. But she’d practiced healing magic without a royal license. She’d ignored borders, cast forbidden spells, and more than once, saved people who were meant to die. In the Crown’s eyes, mercy was treason. Especially if it used light. Still, she knew better than to refuse a royal summons. Even if it led her straight into a trap. ⸻ By dawn, Elira was gone. She left behind the worn stones of her village and the herbal notes on her mentor’s shelf, carrying only a leather satchel of supplies and the protective charm around her neck—a sun-carved pendant, the only thing her mother had left her. The journey to the Obsidian Palace took three days by horseback. As she rode through dense forests and lonely plains, Elira felt the land shift beneath her. The air grew colder. Thinner. Shadows stretched longer, even in daylight. Birds stopped singing. The closer she came to the cursed heart of the kingdom, the heavier her magic felt—as if the land itself was holding its breath. By the fourth evening, the palace appeared on the horizon. Elira stared at it from the ridge of a black hill, breath stolen by the sight. It was unlike anything she’d imagined. Not golden or welcoming like the children’s tales. The Obsidian Palace looked like it had been carved from a single piece of night. Spires rose like claws against the sky, and the high walls were laced with metal vines that shimmered with enchantments too dark to name. The towers wept with ivy and ash. And at its center, barely visible between shadowed gates, was the prince’s wing—the place where no one who entered ever came back whole. Her fingers curled tightly around the reins. “What kind of healer am I,” she muttered, “if I’m too afraid to try?” She nudged the horse forward. ⸻ The gates opened without a word when she arrived. No one greeted her. The guards watched her like statues, their armor gleaming with symbols she didn’t recognize. No smiles. No warmth. Just silence—and the metallic scrape of the door locking behind her once she passed through. A robed attendant appeared at the far end of the courtyard, silent as a ghost. She motioned for Elira to follow, then led her through corridors too dark for any sunlight to reach. The palace smelled of cold marble and iron. The halls were lined with empty portraits, their faces scratched out. “Elira Drake?” a voice called suddenly. She stopped, heart leaping as a man stepped from the shadows ahead. He was older—gray robes, sharp eyes—but not a guard. Not a mage either. Something about him was… wrong. Elira couldn’t place it. “I am Lord Ryn,” he said. “The prince’s steward.” She dipped her head respectfully. “You sent for me?” “We did.” He studied her for a moment. “You will be taken to the East Wing. There, you will remain until summoned. You are not to speak to the prince without permission. Do not enter his chambers. Do not touch him. And above all—do not let him touch you.” Elira frowned. “I thought I was here to heal him.” Lord Ryn’s expression didn’t change. “You are. And you’ll do so carefully. His condition is… unique.” A chill ran through her. He stepped aside, gesturing to a tall, black-lacquered door carved with strange runes that pulsed faintly. “This is your hall now,” he said. “The prince is waiting.” And with that, he turned and vanished, leaving Elira standing in silence—staring at the door between her and the cursed soul inside.