The Prince and the Curse
1959 Words
Chapter Two – The Prince and the Curse
The voice still echoed in Lyra’s head long after the black flame vanished.
The Heir of Ruin has returned.
The words clawed at her mind, even as silence settled over the smoldering ruins of Velmere. Smoke twisted up from the castle’s bones. The once-proud banners of gold and white now lay buried beneath ash and blood. Somewhere in the wreckage, the prince’s heartbeat fluttered weakly against her chest.
Lyra didn’t remember running. Only that she refused to leave him.
By the time the red dawn crept over the mountains, she had dragged Kael through the forest path that led home. Every breath burned, every step a battle against exhaustion. Her arms ached from carrying his weight, but the mark on her arm pulsed with strange strength — as if something deep within her refused to let him die.
When she reached the forge, her father was waiting outside, eyes wide with horror at the sight of her.
“By the gods, Lyra, what have you done?”
She fell to her knees beside the anvil, Kael’s blood staining the stone floor. “He’s alive,” she gasped. “Please—help me.”
Her father hesitated only a moment before rushing to his side. The years had not dulled his healer’s instincts. “Who is he?”
“Prince Kael,” she whispered. “He was in the castle when—”
Her father froze. “The prince?” His gaze flicked to the strange shimmer beneath her sleeve — the faint glow of the Sigil. His voice dropped. “And your mark—?”
“I didn’t mean to— it just—”
“Lyra.” His tone was sharp now, fearful. “Do you understand what this means? If anyone sees that mark… if they know he’s here—”
“I couldn’t leave him to die!”
He shut his eyes, jaw tight. “Bring him inside. Quickly.”
---
They laid Kael on the worktable. Lyra cleaned his wounds as her father crushed herbs, his hands trembling. The smell of iron and smoke filled the air.
“He won’t survive long,” her father muttered. “The magic that struck him—it’s divine fire. Mortal flesh can’t hold it.”
Lyra swallowed hard. “There must be a way.”
Her father’s gaze softened. “You can’t heal everyone, child.”
“I can try.”
She pressed her hand to Kael’s chest. Her mark flared in response, hot as molten steel. For a heartbeat, light spilled through his skin—his pulse returning, his breath deepening.
Her father stumbled back. “Lyra! What did you do?”
She jerked her hand away, but it was too late. The Sigil had come alive, its lines glowing black-red against her skin, spreading like ink across her wrist.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It just—reacted.”
Kael’s eyes opened.
---
Golden irises stared up at her, bright as sunlight through smoke. His voice was barely a rasp. “Where… am I?”
“You’re safe,” she said. “At least for now.”
He looked around, dazed. “The castle… the fire…”
“You were attacked. The Wraithguard—”
He flinched. “You saw them?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “They called me something. The Heir of Ruin. Do you know what that means?”
Kael’s gaze hardened. “It means death.”
Before she could ask more, pounding fists rattled the door.
“Open in the name of the crown!” a voice barked. “By order of King Auren, all citizens will submit to inspection for heresy and treason!”
Lyra’s father froze. “They’re here.”
Kael struggled to sit up, but pain doubled him over. “They can’t find me,” he hissed. “If they do, they’ll kill us both.”
Her father moved fast. “Through the back. Go—now.”
“What about you?” Lyra asked.
“I’ll stall them. I’ve lived long enough to tell a convincing lie.”
“Father—”
He grabbed her shoulders, his eyes fierce. “You listen to me, Lyra. Whatever that mark is, it’s not your fault. But you must run. You must survive.”
Tears burned her eyes. “I can’t leave you.”
“You can. Because you’re my daughter—and you were born stubborn enough to outlive the world.”
The soldiers pounded again. “Last warning!”
Her father turned, shouting over his shoulder, “Go!”
Lyra hesitated one last second, memorizing the lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes. Then she took Kael’s arm and slipped into the night.
---
They fled through the forest paths, branches clawing at their skin. Behind them came the sounds of shouting, splintering wood—then silence. A silence that told Lyra everything she didn’t want to know.
Her chest ached, but there was no time to mourn.
Kael stumbled beside her, weak but determined. “You shouldn’t have helped me,” he said quietly. “You’ve doomed yourself.”
“Then I guess we’re both doomed.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “You don’t understand. The curse—your mark—it’s older than the kingdom. My family spent centuries trying to erase it.”
“Erase what?”
He looked at her then, truly looked, and she saw the exhaustion and fear behind his golden eyes. “The Sigil of Ruin isn’t just a mark. It’s a seal. The first queen—Elara the Unmaker—bore it when she tried to open the Gate of Eternity. When she died, her curse split across bloodlines. Those who carry it…” He hesitated. “They’re said to be her descendants.”
Lyra stopped. “Descendants? But my family are blacksmiths.”
Kael’s gaze dropped to her arm. “Not just any blacksmiths, apparently.”
Before she could reply, he staggered and nearly fell. She caught him, steadying him against a tree. His skin was burning—too hot, glowing faintly with veins of light beneath the surface.
“What’s happening to you?”
He grimaced. “The divine flame inside me. It shouldn’t be possible, but when you touched me—something changed.”
She felt it too—a strange pulse between them, like two heartbeats beating in sync. His pain bled into her chest, and her mark shimmered in response, trying to balance it.
“Let go,” he gasped. “It’s feeding on you.”
She tightened her grip. “Then it can choke.”
The forest around them seemed to shift—the wind dying, the air heavy with unseen power. Light and shadow coiled between them like twin serpents. For a moment, their hearts beat as one.
Then Kael’s fire dimmed, and he collapsed against her shoulder, breathing shallowly.
Lyra knelt beside him, trembling. “Don’t you dare die,” she whispered. “Not after all this.”
His lips moved, voice barely a breath. “If I do… don’t come after me.”
She brushed hair from his face. “I’m not taking orders from royalty.”
A ghost of a smile flickered before he lost consciousness again.
---
By dusk, they found an abandoned hunter’s cabin deep within the woods. Lyra lit a small fire and sat beside him, watching the light dance across his face. Every time she tried to rest, her mark pulsed, whispering in the back of her mind—a low, ancient voice murmuring in a language she couldn’t understand.
When she finally slept, the dreams came again.
She stood in a vast hall of obsidian mirrors. In each reflection, she saw herself—hundreds of versions, each wearing a different crown, each with the same blazing mark. One stepped forward, her eyes the color of dying stars.
You’ve opened the gate, the woman said. Now it will open you.
Lyra tried to speak, but no sound came. The other woman raised her hand, touching Lyra’s chest. The Sigil flared.
When the blood of sun and ruin mix, the world will remember what it was meant to fear.
Lyra woke with a scream.
The fire had burned low. Kael stirred beside her, awake now, his gaze wary. “You were dreaming,” he said softly. “Calling out.”
She swallowed. “I saw her again. The woman with the crown.”
He nodded slowly. “Elara the Unmaker. My ancestors called her the mother of monsters.”
Lyra stared into the dying embers. “She said something about blood—yours and mine.”
Kael’s jaw tightened. “Then it’s true. The prophecy.”
“What prophecy?”
He hesitated, then recited in a voice that sounded older than both of them:
> “When light and ruin meet, the Gate shall break,
and gods shall walk once more.”
The wind outside moaned like a warning.
Lyra shivered. “And you think… we’re the ones it’s about?”
“I think the world doesn’t make mistakes that big twice.”
For a long moment, they sat in silence. The firelight painted gold on his skin, red on hers. Two halves of something neither could understand.
Then, faintly, from the forest, came the sound of hooves.
Kael was on his feet instantly, hand on the dagger she’d found in the ruins. “They’ve tracked us.”
Lyra doused the fire. “How?”
“Magic leaves a trail,” he said grimly. “Especially yours.”
They burst through the back door as torches flared in the distance. Voices echoed through the trees. “In the name of the Crowned Flame—bring us the witch!”
Kael grabbed her hand. “This way!”
They ran until their lungs burned, crashing through roots and underbrush. The pursuers drew closer—shadows among shadows. A crossbow bolt hissed past Lyra’s ear. Another struck a tree inches from Kael’s shoulder.
They reached a ravine at the forest’s edge. Below, a river roared between jagged rocks.
“There’s no bridge,” Lyra said.
Kael looked back—the soldiers were almost upon them. “Then we jump.”
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly. But so are you.”
And before she could argue, he took her hand and leapt.
For a moment, the world was nothing but air and light and fear. Then the river swallowed them whole.
---
When Lyra dragged herself onto the far bank, coughing water and blood, the night was still. The soldiers’ torches flickered faintly on the cliffs above, too far to see them.
Kael lay motionless beside her, his body cold. She pressed her hand to his chest, desperate. Her mark responded, burning fiercely. A spark passed between them—literal light—and his heart jerked beneath her palm.
His eyes snapped open, gold blazing brighter than before. For one impossible moment, the mark on her arm and the glow beneath his skin aligned perfectly—two halves of the same symbol.
They stared at each other, breathless.
“What was that?” she whispered.
Kael’s voice was raw. “A bond.”
“What kind of bond?”
“The kind you can’t break.”
He looked at her then, with something like awe and terror mixed together. “Lyra… whatever you are, our fates just sealed together.”
The wind howled through the valley, carrying the faint toll of distant bells — the sound of war awakening again.
And far away, in the depths of the ruined castle, a pair of golden eyes opened in the darkness, whispering:
The Gate stirs.
---
- Writer
