"Come here."
Aunt Lilian's voice slices through the silence like a knife. Her fingers clamp around Janeal's wrist, dragging her down the corridor with terrifying strength. Janeal stumbles behind her, trying to pull away, but Aunt Lilian's nails dig into her skin so hard that blood beads along the edges.
"Please… don't do this," Janeal begs, her voice raw and broken.
But her aunt doesn't hear her. Or maybe she chooses not to.
Inside the dim room, Aunt Lilian shoves her into a wooden chair facing an old mirror. The reflection staring back at her 'is a stranger'— pale cheeks, swollen red eyes, lips trembling with fear.
"Where is your self-respect?" the reflection seems to whisper.
"Where is your voice?"
Janeal has no answers.
Aunt Lilian opens a carved wooden box and begins wiping the tears and dirt from her face. She works quickly, brushing powder onto Janeal's skin, dabbing color onto her lips, tying back her hair with silver ribbons. Her movements are cold and mechanical, like someone dressing a doll.
A wedding gown waits on the nearby table — delicate, white, and suffocating. Aunt Lilian lifts it, not bothering to look Janeal in the eyes as she drapes it over her.
Then comes the necklace — a heavy silver chain with a dark blue gem that pulses faintly in the light.
"This is your duty," Aunt Lilian says, tightening the clasp. "It's your turn to serve our family. Don't be ungrateful."
Janeal lowers her gaze. Her throat burns, but she says nothing. She knows there's no point in pleading. Aunt Lilian's mind is set. Her heart was sold long ago — traded for a dream of power, of wealth, of a place at the palace table.
They leave the house in silence. The carriage ride is long and quiet, rolling past hills blanketed in gray mist. As they approach the capital gates of Averna, Janeal sees the distant spires of the palace rise like fangs against the sky.
The guards open the gates. The royal escort waits.
And so does her fate.
Inside the palace, the grand hall is filled with whispers. Nobles stand in rows, their faces pale, their eyes avoiding hers. There is no music. No joy. Only the rustle of fabric and the sound of her footsteps echoing on marble.
At the end of the aisle stands King Athelor.
Tall. Severe. Eyes like cold steel. He is at least twenty-five years older than Janeal. Once a soldier, now a king — and last of the cursed bloodline of Averna.
As she approaches, their eyes meet. There is no kindness in his expression, only quiet resignation… and perhaps a flicker of sorrow.
Everyone in this hall knows what is about to happen.
This is a funeral dressed as a wedding.
The curse is no secret. For generations, the kings of Averna have lost every queen to a cruel, lingering magic. At first, the royal brides died after years. Then months. Then weeks. Until now, when no one dares to marry the king at all.
Even King Athelor's own mother died within days of giving birth to him.
He has outlived every attempt to break the curse.
Until now.
Janeal is the first woman in nearly a decade to stand beside him at the altar. Not by choice — but because her aunt promised her to the crown in exchange for royal favor. Aunt Lilian believes that once Janeal dies, the king's wealth and title will pass to her niece, and eventually to her. A plan driven by greed. A marriage made with poison.
And Janeal?
She is simply the sacrifice.
The priest's voice rings out, calling the sacred rites.
King Athelor lifts his hand, and Janeal's fingers tremble as she places hers in his. A strange warmth flickers between them — so faint, she wonders if she imagined it.
Then comes the binding vow.
As the words fall from the king's lips, a wind stirs the air. The blue gem on Janeal's necklace glows faintly. A gust rushes through the hall, snuffing out several candles. Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
Something shifts.
Janeal's heart pounds wildly. She feels a strange pulse move through her chest — not pain, not fear… but something other.
The final vow is spoken.
The knot is tied.
And in that moment, no one notices the faint shimmer that spreads across King Athelor's skin — like stardust brushing away age. His silver-threaded hair darkens. The sharp lines of his face soften. His posture straightens.
He looks… younger.
The courtiers gasp.
But Janeal doesn't see it.
She only feels the cold weight of the crown as it's placed on her head.
She is no longer a girl.
She is the queen of a cursed kingdom.
And her fate is only beginning.