The Cursed Prince's Bride

Chapter One: A Prince Needs A Kingdom

A faint chuckle escaped Olaf, and he responded, "Yiva, how many children have you nursed? I have little you haven't seen."

"It is not proper," Yiva persisted, still trying to avert her gaze.

With a wry smile, Olaf donned a loose tunic, trying to appease Yiva's sensibilities. "Better now?" he asked.

Yiva looked away, fanning herself with her hand, her devotion to Runa apparent in every gesture.

Olaf settled at a small table overlooking the garden as Yiva busied herself with changing bed linens and arranging fresh garments for Runa. The weight of his responsibilities bore down on him, and he wondered how he would secure a prosperous future for their little prince.

Olaf slouched in his chair, intertwining his hands over his stomach, a brooding air enveloping him. Lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, time slipped by unnoticed until Yiva's persistent voice cut through the haze.

"For the fourth time, what do you want for your first meal?" Yiva's impatience was obvious.

Olaf raised a dismissive hand, waving her away without even looking up.

Unperturbed, Yiva approached him and gently tugged at his black curls, a maternal instinct shining through. "What's troubling you?" she inquired with genuine concern.

Olaf leaned forward, his head heavy with contemplation, his fingers rubbing together in thought. Should he confide in her? What help could a nursemaid possibly offer? He let out a deep sigh.

"Runa claims the gods have revealed that she carries a son," he finally admitted.

Yiva's reaction was akin to a clucking chicken who had just laid an egg. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed, playfully ruffling his hair. "Why fret? This calls for a great celebration!"

But Olaf couldn't shake off his concerns. "It would indeed be a joyous occasion if he were not a prince by birthright, while I'm nothing more than a man. I have nothing to offer him," he confessed, his eyes growing distant. "A prince requires kingdoms; all I have is this crumbling heap of a fortress. It's hardly fitting for a prince, don't you see, Yiva?" He stood up, his gaze fixed on Runa outside. "My father was never eager to make allies, and now I have no one to turn to for aid." He turned to face the round, elf-like woman. "Unless you know of someone?"

Yiva's expression remained inscrutable, and she edged away hesitantly.

"Yiva?" Olaf pressed, a mix of desperation and hope in his voice.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Yiva quickly turned away, evading the question.

Olaf, in his urgency, knocked his chair over while trying to catch up with her. "Yiva, if you know someone who can help, for the sake of all the gods above, tell me!"

Yiva trembled in his grasp, refusing to meet his gaze. She swallowed hard, and in a barely audible whisper, she revealed, "There is a rumor... but his name is never spoken aloud."

Olaf's grip softened, and he cradled Yiva's face, planting a tender kiss on her graying temple. "Please, dear mother, tell me."

Yiva bit her lip, visibly torn. "Silas Eirik," she finally uttered.

Olaf turned her face to meet his gaze, his eyes pleading. "Tell me where I can find him."

Yiva held his wrists, her grip firm, and implored, "He is no ordinary man. He is evil incarnate. I beg you, do not seek him out."

"Yiva," Olaf persisted.

Her eyes turned cold as ice. "In the swamps of Dalbunn, not far from the head of River Havbris," she divulged, but her tone warned him not to pursue the matter further. She moved towards the door but paused before leaving. "But you didn't hear it from me."

With a quick spur of his horse's flank, Olaf urged Natt onward. Natt, a colossal black steed, launched forward with each stride, his massive front legs nearly rearing up to gather momentum. His midnight-dark mane billowed in the wind, dancing around Olaf's face like spectral tendrils. Crouching low over Natt's withers, Olaf gripped the horse's sweaty neck, a connection of trust and shared purpose.

Together, they dashed towards the River Havbris, the water erupting in a spectacular explosion with each thunderous hoofbeat. Leaving the blush of dawn behind, they turned westward, and in the distance, a line of alder trees stood cloaked in the remnants of twilight.

As they charged into the woods, a symphony of movement and nature's harmonies accompanied their journey. Weaving through the trees, they gracefully leaped over logs and pranced through sparkling streams. The further they ventured, the deeper the shadows enveloped them, and the forest floor transformed into a soft, loamy embrace. Natt's powerful strides stirred up bits of silt, and the earthy aroma rose like an offering from the depths below. Here and there, patches of mud challenged their path.

The once-dense woods now revealed a world that had turned mossy and mystic, with narrow spruces standing like sentinels in the dimness. Natt, sensing the terrain's uncertainty, slowed his pace, unsure of his footing. Recognizing the need to proceed with caution, Olaf dismounted, freeing Natt from the weight of the reins that draped over his head.

The bullfrogs' chorus echoed through the murky surroundings, and Olaf couldn't help but swat at a persistent mosquito that had taken a liking to the vein on his neck. Natt, the wary black steed, let out a concerned nicker, but Olaf comforted him with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Underneath their feet, the black peat squelched and exuded the pungent stench of standing water. In this dim and swampy realm, visibility was a challenge, but thankfully, native moonflies adorned the horizon like stars, casting faint glimmers of light to guide their way.

Natt, sensing the ominous terrain, hesitated and tugged at the reins, testing Olaf's nerves. "Easy, lad," Olaf murmured, hoping to soothe the steed's anxieties.

With wide eyes and flaring nostrils, Natt warily contemplated their path ahead. Olaf chirped encouragement, urging him to move forward, and finally, Natt complied with a cautious step. Olaf patted the horse's forelock appreciatively and pressed onward, squinting to pierce the darkness. Brackish waters bubbled and foamed around them, occasionally releasing huge, gaseous bubbles that could swallow a child whole. The stench of the acidic air stung Olaf's senses, and the vines around his boots seemed intent on ensnaring him and drawing him into the bog's grasp. Despite these obstacles, Olaf spotted a glimmer of hope through the trees ahead – the faint glow of a campfire.

He reassured Natt, "It's not much further," but the steed remained restless, shaking his mane. As they ventured closer, a long, sinuous shape moved through the water, spooking Natt and causing him to bump into Olaf, injuring his foot. The pain was sharp, but Olaf held back his curses, trying not to startle Natt any further. Injured but undeterred, he continued onward, feeling the mud sucking at his boots with each step. The hanging veils of lichen added an eerie touch to the atmosphere, swinging like spectral dancers in the night.

Pushing through the lichen curtain, Olaf caught a glimpse of the clearing ahead, illuminated by the flickering flames of a campfire. A bubbling pot and creaky shack greeted his sight, while barrels and an alchemy station completed the peculiar scene. He tethered Natt to a nearby branch, and the steed nonchalantly began to graze.

Olaf's hand instinctively sought the dagger at his side, wishing he had brought a larger weapon. Nevertheless, he knew the importance of being skilled at close combat, for a man who couldn't defend himself at short range was hardly a true defender at all. Gripping the dagger's hilt firmly, Olaf readied himself, pointing the blade towards the source of a snap from the surrounding woods. His heart raced when a tall figure, draped in forest green with mysterious runic symbols adorning his attire, emerged from the trees, carrying a stack of logs. With a purposeful drop of the logs by the fire, the figure approached Olaf and proclaimed, "It took you long enough to find me, Olaf Shearborn."

Stunned, Olaf's breath caught in his throat, and he could only manage a response, "You know my name."