The sky above Ravelle Palace was a roiling, dark slate, swollen with storm clouds that loomed like an omen. Lightning licked the sky as thunder growled across the distant mountains. Inside the palace walls, where chandeliers glittered and tapestries whispered old truths, Prince Marcus Ravelle stood with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
He stared at the hearth in the royal study, though there was no fire. Only the painting above it held his attention—a towering oil portrait of his ancestors: kings, princes, and men who had never lived to wear the crown. His jaw tensed.
Behind him, Lord Ashwell cleared his throat. "The coronation is set for the tenth day of next month. The invitations have been sent. Nobles are arriving from across the realm—"
"Cancel them," Marcus said, voice low.
Ashwell blinked. "Cancel—Your Highness, this is not the time for—"
"I'm not walking to my death with a choir singing and children tossing rose petals. The curse is real, and you know it."
Ashwell said nothing. He smoothed the sleeves of his charcoal coat and stepped forward. "We've investigated every angle. There's no magical residue, no assassin's blade, no disease to trace. The deaths appear natural. But—"
"They all died," Marcus snapped. "Every firstborn prince of Ravelle. My brother. My uncle. My grandfather. Every one of them before they were crowned."
Ashwell lowered his eyes. "Yes."
A tense silence passed. Rain tapped at the tall windows like impatient fingers.
Marcus turned finally, his black military-style coat gleaming in the candlelight. "So tell me what's left. What haven't we tried?"
Ashwell cleared his throat. "There is… one thing. The ancient prophecy scrolls. The ones written in Elder Ravellian. There's a scholar arriving today—well, she should have been here an hour ago."
"She?" Marcus echoed. "You brought a woman into this?"
"She comes highly recommended," Ashwell muttered. "Linguist. Translator. Brilliant, they say."
"Brilliant," Marcus said with a dry laugh. "Let's hope she's faster than the curse."
Just then, the door creaked open. A guard stepped in and bowed.
"The translator from Wynthorne has arrived, sire."
"Send her in."
Marcus turned, expecting a dry, gray-haired scholar with a stack of scrolls and spectacles.
What he got was a drenched young woman with thick, rain-matted chestnut curls and a stubborn, raised brow. She wore a hunter-green coat several years out of fashion and boots that tracked mud onto the royal carpet.
"You're late," Marcus said coolly.
Erin lifted her chin. "So is your kingdom's sense of welcome."
Ashwell winced.
Marcus narrowed his eyes, but a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You've got fire. That won't save you here."
"I'm not here to be saved," Erin said. "I'm here to translate prophecy, remember?"
She walked toward the desk with the confidence of someone who had never bowed to a crown and never planned to. Marcus followed her with his eyes, something in his chest shifting.
As she passed him, she paused. Just for a second. Her eyes locked with his.
And in that moment, Marcus felt it.
Recognition.
But how?