In the shadowed valleys of Eldoria, where the sun dared not linger long and the wind carried the whispers of secret sins, the kingdom lay ensnared beneath a curse — the judgment of the gods known as the Holy Circle.
Once, this land had flourished beneath divine favor. Rivers ran clear and silver beneath an untroubled sky, the fields swelled with gold at every harvest, and laughter rang bright across the meadows. But that was before the gods turned away. Now, the rivers trickled like dying veins, the air hung heavy with decay, and the forests — once sanctuaries of light — echoed with the savage cries of beasts unbound by divine restraint...
At the borderlands, the humble farming village of Uriah clung stubbornly to life. The people there were a weathered folk — hands calloused, eyes drained but always motivated to do their best. Each dawn found them whispering smaller prayers of hope to gods who had long stopped listening to their devotions and prayers.
Inside the inn, the hearth struggled to fend off the creeping cold that prowled through the cracks of the stone walls. A handful of villagers huddled near its glow — farmers, smiths, and youths yet to be aware of the harsh world they live in.
Old Harlan, the elder of Uriah, sat slouched in his wooden chair like a withered oak, his beard a tangle of white and grey, his eyes clouded by the weight of too many winters. He cradled a mug of thin ale, muttering into the rim, This curse… aye, it's his doing, no doubt. The gods turned their backs the day that dark one took the crown. Blood on his hands from all the wars, and now it seeps into the very soil.
He cleared his throat, gravelly and worn, and lifted his voice to the room.
"Listen well," he rasped, his tone carrying the weight of truth and warning. "The Prophecy in the temple will all unfold soon. The curse began when the old king fell — betrayed his own kin. King Tirian Bordhein, that ruthless shadow of a man, seized the throne with a blade forged in malice and anger. Feared from the frozen peaks of Nordhealm to the golden deserts of Sahariel, he rules with an iron hand wrapped in velvet. But the gods…" Harlan's gaze glinted like dying embers. "The gods, they still care about us mortals! They graciously will allow us to win back their favour but in return demand a pure soul to break the curse. They whisper of a maiden, chosen by their will, who must wed the king and bind the curse in holy chains. Only then will Eldoria know peace again."
The innkeeper, waddled past with a tray of stale bread. His cheeks were ruddy from the firelight, yet his eyes darted uneasily toward Harlan. "Chosen by the gods?" he muttered under his breath. "More like sacrificed to a monster."
His wife shot him a glare sharp enough to silence him, then turned to the crowd with forced brightness. "You're scaring them again! The king's men still ride the borders, do they not? They keep the beasts from our doors, protect our homes — even if their master's hands are not clean. Should we not be grateful?"
Harlan's brows knit like thunderclouds. "Protect us?" he echoed. "Aye, perhaps but does it matter? The gods already made their choice, didn't you see the priests enter our village, entering our own houses of all those with a daughter of age?" Harlan's eyes turned dark. "Tomorrow night it be one of our daughters they drag to that forsaken citadel. And tell me, woman, how should we praise a man who forces a crown upon the unwilling?"
The innkeeper's wife bit her lip, her eyes flicking toward the doorway beyond which her daughter served stew and ale. Her voice softened to a tremor. "It is the gods' will," she murmured. "We have no say in their choosing... They're doing this for us... to be under their light once again" She stops herself from completing her sentence, clenching her teeth, grateful it's not her daughter the priests chose when the entered her house... But who? which poor girl is it? who's daughter had to sacrifice herself for this kingdom?
The youths stirred uneasily. One of them — Tomas, a lanky boy whose freckles could not quite disguise his seriousness — clenched his fists beneath the table. If I were stronger,he thought fiercely, I'd stand against that tyrant myself. Forcing a bride upon some cursed soul? What sort of king commands devotion through chains?
He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Is it true, Elder?" he asked quietly. "That the oracle will name her tomorrow night — under the blood moon?"
Harlan's eyes fell to the fire, the reflection of flame flickering in their watery depths. "Aye," he whispered. "Tomorrow the priests will gather atop the cliffs. The blood moon will rise, and the gods will bless and reveal their chosen. Perhaps she will save us… or perhaps she will only feed the curse."
*****
Far from Uriah's humble dwellings, the capital of Eldoria brooded beneath a tempest sky. The palace, carved from the heart of the mountain, rose like a dark crown upon the earth — a monument to the man who had conquered the continent and lost his soul in the process.
Within its marble halls, King Tirian paced, each step striking the floor with authority. Shadows bent with each flicker of torchlight, cast long and sharp across the cracked walls.
At the edge of the throne room stood General Torvax, King Tirian's closest confidant, as well as friend. Torvax was a veteran of countless wars, his hair tied back with little care, his face scored with the memories of battles. He watched his king in silence. Restless again,Torvax thought grimly. The prophecy haunts him... Understandably so. Would he find peace once the gods' bride came to him… or would it only deepen his torment?
King Tirian was every inch the legend the world spoke of — tall and broad-shouldered, his hair dark and messy as the abyss, his eyes molten amber, alive with a light both fierce and unyielding. He was a conqueror carved from violence, and yet, as he moved, there was a heaviness about him — the weariness of a man who had long forgotten what it meant to be free.
"My lord," Torvax began, breaking the stillness, "the priests report the oracle's rites continue on the morrow's eve... The union draws near." He hesitated, then added, "Do you believe this marriage will end the curse the gods placed on the land?"
Tirian halted, one hand resting upon the hilt of his sword — a blade so black it seemed to drink the light. His jaw tightened. For an instant, the mask of the king slipped, revealing exhaustion and frustration.
A bride chosen by the gods, he mused bitterly. Another chain to wear.
He had razed empires, bent nations to their knees, all in service to divine will. And yet the gods demanded more. Always more. Now they would yoke me to a stranger — a fragile girl... the gods alone would know if she'd survive a burden like this? For Eldoria's sake, they say. tsk...
His voice, when it came, was low and steady. "Prepare the palace, and the servants for her arrival" he said. "If the gods have chosen, then it will be done. She will have no more say in this than I."
*****
When the night fell of the blood moon, it climbed the heavens like a wound reopening. Its crimson light spilled across the land, and the bells of the temple rang out through the valleys.
At the edge of a forest, a knock echoed against the door of a modest cottage. Villagers gathered outside, murmuring prayers, their breath misting in the cold air.
Priestess Arril, robed in silver and gold, stepped forward. Her hands trembled as she lifted the chalice of holy water and began to speak the ancient words given from the gods:
"A kin's hand strikes a kin's heart. Only through a sacred union shall the gods be appeased. The hand of the Maiden of Light shall bind the wound, And through her soul, the curse of the crown shall be undone."
She turned to the door as it creaked open.
There, framed by the crimson light, stood the holy maiden, Orielle. Her garments were plain, her hands small and unadorned as she nervously held on to the rim of her dress — yet something in her presence silenced the crowd. Her hair gleamed like spun silver, her eyes deep as forest emeralds.
The wind hushed. Even the night seemed to be still before her.
The priestess lowered her gaze, whispering, "The gods' chosen"