At 7:55 PM, Rhys stood outside the dining hall, gathering his courage.
You don't have to do this, he told himself.
You could just stay in your room. What's he going to do?
But he knew what Pryce would do. Come get him. Force the issue. And Rhys would rather maintain some illusion of choice.
Thirty days, he reminded himself. Just survive thirty days and figure out how to break this.
He pushed open the heavy wooden doors.
The dining hall was lit by hundreds of candles—in chandeliers, on the table, along the walls. It should have been romantic. Instead, it felt like a stage set for a gothic nightmare.
Pryce stood at the head of the table, now dressed in even more elaborate period clothing—velvet coat, silk cravat, boots polished to a shine. He looked like he'd stepped out of a portrait.
"You came," Pryce said, sounding genuinely pleased. "I wasn't sure you would."
"You didn't give me much choice."
"There's always choice, beloved. You chose to come here instead of staying in your room. That's progress." Pryce pulled out a chair—not at the far end of the table, but right beside his own seat. "Sit."
Rhys hesitated, then sat. The chair was uncomfortable, the carved wood digging into his back.
The table was set with an elaborate meal that hadn't been there when Rhys walked in: roasted meat, fresh bread, fruit, wine. It looked and smelled real.
"How—"
"Magic has its advantages." Pryce sat beside him, far too close. "I can't eat anymore, but I remember the pleasure of it. And I want to share that with you."
"This is insane."
"This is courtship." Pryce poured wine into Rhys's glass—deep red, like blood. "I should have done this properly the first time.
Taken Elara to dinners, showered her with gifts, wooed her instead of simply demanding she love me because I was a prince."
"You can't just rewrite history—"
"I'm not rewriting it. I'm learning from it."
Pryce's hand covered Rhys's. Cold. "Three hundred years is a long time to think about one's mistakes."
Rhys pulled his hand away. "If you've learned from your mistakes, then let me go.
Break the curse yourself."
"I can't."
"Won't."
"Can't." Pryce's jaw tightened. "Do you think I enjoy this? Being trapped, unable to move on, forced to watch you die again and again and be reborn without memory of me? It's torment, Rhys."
"Then end it!"
"I don't know how!" The words burst out of Pryce with unexpected rawness. "I spoke a curse in my dying moments, powered by rage and heartbreak and three days of no sleep, no food, consumed by grief. I bound your soul to mine without understanding what I was doing. And now—" He broke off, composing himself.
"Now we're both trapped."
Rhys stared at him. "You're saying you don't know how to break it?"
"I know what the curse demands: that you belong to me. That no one else has you.
That you accept your place at my side."
Pryce looked at him with something almost like pleading. "If you did that—if you chose me willingly—perhaps it would end. Perhaps we could both be free."
"Free to what? Be together? I don't even know you!"
"Then get to know me." Pryce picked up his wine glass—Rhys noticed it remained full, untouched. A prop. "We have thirty days. Let me show you who I was before grief destroyed me. Let me prove I'm more than the monster I became."
Rhys wanted to throw the wine in his face. Wanted to scream.
Instead, he said: "Tell me about Elara. The truth. Not the version where she betrayed you—what really happened."
Pryce went very still.
"You want the truth?" His voice was soft, dangerous. "Even if it destroys the last illusions you have about innocence and victimhood?"
"Yes."
For a long moment, Pryce said nothing. Then he stood, walked to the window overlooking the grounds. The candlelight cast his shadow long and distorted across the floor.
"I met her at the spring festival," he began quietly. "1720. I was twenty-two, she was eighteen. My father had arranged three different potential brides for me to meet—all princesses, all boring, all desperate to be queen. I was so tired of it. So I snuck out."
Rhys listened, not touching his wine.
"I went to the village festival in disguise. Just wanted one night of freedom. And then I saw her." Pryce's voice softened. "She was selling flowers in the market square. Had flowers in her own hair—purple wildflowers, I remember. She was laughing with an old woman, helping her carry her bags, and the sunlight caught in her curls and I just... stopped. Couldn't breathe."
Despite himself, Rhys felt drawn into the story.
"I bought every flower she had," Pryce continued. "Just to have a reason to talk to her. She recognized me immediately—I wasn't as well-disguised as I thought. But instead of bowing and scraping, she laughed. Said, 'You're going to look ridiculous carrying all those roses,
Your Highness. What will people think?'"
A ghost of a smile crossed Pryce's face.
"No one had ever laughed at me before. Not like that. Not with warmth instead of fear." He turned back to Rhys. "I was in love before the sun set."
"And her?"
"She was cautious. Smart. She knew what it meant for a prince to court a commoner. Knew it would bring trouble." Pryce moved back to the table, but didn't sit. "But I was persistent. Relentless. I visited the village every week, brought her gifts, wrote her poetry, painted her portrait. And slowly, she softened. Started to love me back."
"How long?"
"Two years. Two years of secret meetings, stolen kisses, promises whispered in the dark." Pryce's expression darkened.
"Two years of lying to my father, who kept pressuring me to marry. Two years of Elara begging me to let her go, to find a proper wife, to stop risking both our lives for a love that couldn't last."
"But you wouldn't."
"No. Because I knew—" Pryce's voice cracked slightly. "I knew we were meant to be together. That no princess, no proper bride could ever make me feel what Elara did. So I made plans. Secretly. I was going to abdicate. Give up the throne to a cousin, take Elara somewhere far away where we could just be... us."
Rhys's eyebrows rose. "You were going to give up everything for her?"
"I was young. Stupid. Romantic." Pryce laughed bitterly. "I thought love conquered all. That if I just held on tight enough, wanted it badly enough, I could make it work."
"What happened?"