Suzan's body lay twisted upon the narrow bed, sweat dampening her pale hair as the night air pressed close. Her lips trembled though no one saw, and her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps. Outside the cell, a guard leaned lazily against the stone wall, believing the girl had finally succumbed to exhaustion.
But in the world of her dreams, she was not resting.
A darkness stretched before her, heavy and suffocating, like endless smoke that seeped into her lungs. In that abyss, a voice slid into her ear—smooth, poisonous, velvet dripping with venom, cultivated amusement that savored pain like a delicacy. It was a voice she knew too well, a voice that once coiled around her bones in childhood and left scars she tried to bury.
"You are mine."
The words curled, possessive, and Suzan's heart clenched as though chains wrapped around it. She stumbled forward, barefoot on nothing, clutching her chest.
"You live because I allow it."
It was not shouted. It was a voice of a man who'd never shouted but always made others shout, of a man who never needed to raise his volume to dominate, soft and calm. It had the cold curiosity of someone who'd studied her for sport. That made it worse. Each syllable slithered in, gentle as silk, but edged with thorns that tore at her soul.
"You suffer because I wish it. Even your tears amuse me, little fairy."
Her knees buckled. The title cut deeper than knives—fairy. She did not want to hear it. She wanted to forget, to bury, to live as Suzan, the troublemaker of the capital streets. But his words clawed open the locked chest of memory she had shoved to the bottom of her heart.
"Stop—please…" she whispered whimpering, but her voice broke apart, swallowed by the void.
The laughter that followed was quiet, almost tender. That made her blood run cold.
"Do not forget… it was I who wrote your fate."
His breath, though not real, felt hot against her ear. She shook her head violently, hair whipping her tear-streaked cheeks.
"No matter where you run, no matter how you bury me—you are mine. This curse is my mark, my gift, my chain."
His tone shifted, sickly sweet, like honey poured over rot. It carried the amusement of a man watching a puppet twist on strings he himself tied. He relished her trembling, savored her pleading.
Suzan dropped to her knees. Her cuffed hands in reality gripped the thin blanket, pulling until her knuckles turned white, but in her dream she reached for her chest, nails digging into skin as if she could claw the curse out.
"Please—leave me! Let me go!"
But begging was fuel to him. Her tears were music.
"Why would I release you, when your every cry delights me?"
Her body curled in on itself, trembling. She could feel the phantom fingers closing around her heart, squeezing until her breath came in ragged, drowning gasps.
"Even your pain exists for me, Elisa."
The name—her true name—slammed into her like a spear. Suzan sobbed in the dream, her breaths stuttering, her body writhing against the bed in the waking world. Her lips moved soundlessly: please, please, please.
But the voice continued, patient and cruel.
"This curse reminds you of what you've tried to forget. You cannot bury me. You cannot silence me. You were born for me, little fairy, and you will die by me."
His laughter returned—low, venomous, dripping satisfaction like a serpent savoring prey. And though Suzan's mind screamed, her body betrayed her, shivering violently as if her very soul remembered too clearly the night this curse had been sealed upon her.
Back to the same day's morning, the first day of Suzan's trial. From the highest balcony, where velvet curtains muted the torchlight, the king and queen sat in shadow. They rarely attended trials — but this was no ordinary trial.
The queen sat with her hands clasped tight in her lap, eyes fixed on the girl below. The child in chains. White-blonde hair catching the firelight, green eyes dancing with reckless humor she clearly did not feel.
Suzan was brought in. Shackles no longer clanged at her ankles, but silver cuffs bound her wrists. Her green eyes, bright even in fear, darted around as she entered. Her lips curved into a crooked smile, the kind she always used to mask her nerves.
"Well," she muttered just loudly enough for the guards beside her to hear, "at least the welcome party's bigger than last time. I should start charging tickets."
A couple of guards stifled awkward chuckles, but the sound died quickly in the tense chamber.
The king leaned forward slightly, elbows on the carved armrest. He did not blink. He studied every twitch of Suzan's mouth, every tilt of her head as she joked and bowed. He caught the humor, the bravado but beneath it, he saw the truth. The girl's hands trembled faintly, her breath hitched now and then. Fear was stitched into every joke she threw. She was trying to seem unshaken, but her act was transparent to him.
To others, she was insolent. To him, it was a mask.
That humor was armor. He could see it in the tiny cracks: the way her knuckles whitened against the chains, the quick rise and fall of her chest. Fear bleeding through, hidden under smirks.
From the high seat, King Eldric's sharp eyes studied her. He caught the humor, the bravado, the tilted chin—but beneath it, he saw the truth. He had ruled too long not to see past masks. The girl's hands twitched faintly, her breath hitched now and then. Fear was stitched into every joke she threw. She was trying to seem unshaken, but her act was transparent to him.
He leaned back, folding his hands, saying nothing. Yet inwardly, something gnawed at him.
The proceedings began, voices overlapping with accusations, testimonies, contradictions. Witnesses swore they had seen the girl return alone from the vault and steal the relic in the memory fragment.
Suzan smirked through it all, but when her gaze met Lily's and she saw hesitation—saw doubt—her heart twisted. The smirk faltered, just slightly. And Edric, watching from above, noticed.
After already voicing her doubt, Lily—pale, shaking—insisted Suzan had never left her side though it was already too late. The contradiction spread confusion like wildfire.
By the time the trial recessed, no verdict had been reached. The contradictions were too heavy. Confusion filled the air, and suspicion rested on Suzan's shoulders like lead. She was led away, chains clinking softly, while Lily's desperate voice followed her, Suzan turned her head once, hopeful to see her friend. But the image burned into her heart was Lily's tear-stricken face clouded with uncertainty. The crack in that trust hurt more than the chains.
When the tribunal adjourned and the guards led Suzan away, his eyes followed until the doors closed. Long after, he still stared at the empty space where she had stood.
When the tribunal adjourned and the guards led Suzan away, his eyes followed until the doors closed. Long after, he still stared at the empty space where she had stood.
"Is something troubling you dear?" the queen asked softly beside him.
He blinked, returning to himself. "No," he said at last, rising. But his voice lacked weight.
As they walked back through the corridors, his thoughts pressed heavily on him. The Queen followed him worried, he walked long and turned not toward his chambers, but his study.
The study was quiet, lined with shelves of tomes and maps, parchments marked with the burdens of a kingdom. But Eldric's eyes did not go to his desk. They went to the small frame upon the side table.
He picked it up carefully, as if the glass were fragile enough to shatter beneath a breath. Fingers brushing the surface as though he could touch them again.
His throat tightened.
The family portrait smiled back at him. The paint had faded in places, but the warmth in it could not be erased. Himself, younger than, the queen, their daughter Jane, and the youngest—Elisa. And with them, a man with striking crimson hair, bright-eyed, with the kind of grin that could set a hall alight.
Eldric's breath caught. His eyes burned.
Slowly, his lids closed, and memory swallowed him, memory washed over him with aching weight.
"I will not let what happened then… happen again," he whispered, low, the kind of oath that was not meant for anyone else's ears, his fingers tightening around the frame.
The promise carried him backward, into the past.
Long ago, Eldis that was this kingdom's name. A kingdom so vast and prosperous that poets once called it the crown of the continent. It stood proud and flourishing. Its streets were paved with marble that gleamed under sunlight. Markets brimmed with silks, spices, glass, and steel. Its rivers shimmered with bridges carved like lace, its lands stretched from rolling golden plains to towering crystal lakes that shimmered like mirrors, and its cities glittered with high arches and silver canals, the capital a jewel of trade and magic.
The people of Eldis thrived because of more than just good soil and wealth — they thrived because of their rulers. For generations, the royal bloodline carried within them a blessing older than the kingdom itself: the mark of the Fairy Veira, the Fairy of Life.
Legends whispered that when the world was still half-dark, Veira descended upon the first king of Eldis and bound her spirit to his line. Sometimes she slumbered quietly within the bloodline letting them burrow her healing power.
Each child of the line bore the power to mend wounds, to close gashes, to cure fevers with a touch.
But rarer still, once in decades—or centuries—a child was born not only with the fairy's gift, but with the fairy herself dwelling within, awakening fully in their consciousness. Those children bore a radiant healing mark on their foreheads, shimmering faintly like silver light. They were called The Veiran Blessed, revered as holy, blessing, a walking miracle. Their power was unlike any sorcery or weapon — it was divine. They could heal wounds beyond reason, cure plagues, restore broken land, and even pull a soul clinging to the edge of death back into life. But of course not beyond death itself — for once the flame went out, not even Veira's touch could relight it.
It was said a Veiran Blessed was born once in a century — sometimes longer. Their arrival was celebrated as the kingdom's renewal.
This generation's royal family was blessed beyond measure.
First came Jane of Eldis, a child with golden hair touched by sunlight and eyes like clear spring waters. She did not carry the Fairy's mark, yet her soul shone with its own kindness. Her softness miracle enough. Even as a toddler, Jane's smile could dissolve anger, and her laughter softened even the strictest court ministers. She grew adored by nobles and commoners alike — beloved as the kingdom's angel.
But fate had more in store.
Three years later, another daughter was born — Elisa of Eldis. And to the astonishment of the kingdom, she bore the Veiran mark. Two daughters — one a symbol of compassion, and the other a divine miracle.
Eldis erupted in celebration. Bells rang for three days, fountains overflowed with sparkles and light, and across the streets people cried that Eldis would now enter a golden age
The sisters themselves were inseparable. Jane cherished her sister from the moment she laid eyes on her. She doted on Elisa as though she were her own child, shielding her from every stumble and holding her through every tear. It was a love so intense it startled even the queen — yet it was pure, the bond of souls. The bond between them became the quiet heart of the palace. Their laughter filled the halls like music.
The people said, "If Jane is the kingdom's heart, Elisa is its light."
But the family was not only theirs. Eldis shared blood and bond with Icelis, a frost-clad neighboring kingdom. Their king, Atsuki, who choose loyalty to Eldis with his crown, and through endless battles and sacrifices, he was crowned as Eldis's Guardian Knight—a title reserved only for those whose loyalty and valor were unmatched, given to only one in each age. For their unwavering devotion to the royalty and its kingdom. His devotion to Eldric and Eldis had become legend.
His loyalty was bound by blood as well as oath. He had married the queen's sister, binding the two families together, and with her he had a son.
Their son, a nervous boy with fiery crimson hair like his father, but unlike Elisa's wild curiosity or Jane's sunshine grace, he was quiet, almost shy, but his spirit burned with unspoken courage. He often played with the princesses, chasing butterflies in the garden, building forts from cushions, or sneaking honeyed tarts from the kitchens. He grew among the royal children as though the palace were his second home. Innocent days, laughter echoing in palace halls, as though nothing could ever change.
To the people, they were the kingdom's promise — two princesses, one blessed by the Fairy, and a prince who carried the valor of two great houses.
It was happiness. Innocent and whole.
Yet kingdoms do not grow without shadows.
As Eldis prospered, the weight of governance grew heavy. Atsuki advised bringing in more ministers to share the burden.
Thus, the circle of ministers grew. Among them was one who rose higher than the rest — Minister Kaelen, a man of smooth words, clever, diligent, endlessly loyal, humble eyes, and a brilliance that dazzled even the cautious. He spoke often of loyalty, of service, of the people. He worked beside the king, beside Atsuki, his voice calm. He was welcomed as a friend. Together they were a circle that felt unbreakable.
Trusted deeply by everyone, he grew close to the royal family, dining in their halls, tutoring Jane in histories, praising little Elisa as "the kingdom's brightest jewel."
And thus, the threads of fate tightened.