The prison reeked of rust, rot, and forgotten prayers.
Chains clinked against the walls as Selene Ward pressed her palms to the cold stone, whispering a charm under her breath. The air tasted of blood and iron — two things that didn't mix well with magic.
Her spell fizzled, dying before it reached the runes carved into the floor. She exhaled, frustration tightening her throat.
"So much for escape," she muttered, kicking a pebble across the cell. "You'd think a kingdom that burns witches would at least invest in proper locks."
"Careful, witch," came a rasp from the shadows beyond the bars. "Mockery doesn't sit well with the gods."
Selene looked up. The guard — a thin man with sunken eyes and a scar running from his ear to his neck — smirked at her. "Tomorrow, when you stand before the pyre, you can pray your clever tongue burns slower than the rest of you."
She gave him a smile sharp enough to cut glass. "And you can pray your wife never learns where you spend your nights, Roderic."
His smirk vanished.
He slammed the door and stalked away, muttering curses under his breath. The torchlight faded with him, leaving her in near darkness.
Selene sighed and leaned her head against the damp wall. She wasn't afraid of dying — not really. She'd been chased by worse than kings and pyres. What gnawed at her was the unfinished spell humming beneath her skin, the one that could have changed everything.
If she'd had one more hour, one more drop of moonlight, she could have broken the chain binding her family's curse. Instead, she'd been caught mid-ritual, accused of treason, and thrown into this stinking hole.
Her wrists ached from the iron cuffs. They pulsed faintly, reacting to the magic sealed inside her veins.
Then she felt it — a shift in the air, as if the dungeon itself had taken a breath.
A whisper rode the cold draft: "The cursed one stirs."
Selene froze.
From somewhere deep beneath the prison floor came the echo of movement — not human, not animal, but ancient. The sound made her heart stutter.
She closed her eyes and reached outward with her senses. Her magic, though weakened, flickered in response. The presence below was enormous, silent, and sorrowful.
Whoever it was, they weren't mortal.
A rumble shook the walls. The floor cracked beneath her, glowing faintly with red runes. She stumbled back as a gust of icy wind exploded upward, throwing sparks and dust into the air.
"By the gods—"
Chains rattled. Stone groaned. Then, through the swirling smoke, a hand — pale and strong, veined with dark light — broke through the floor.
Selene's instinct screamed run. Her body disobeyed.
The rest of him emerged — tall, regal, and terrifyingly still. His hair was black as midnight, his skin pale as frost. His eyes — molten gold — burned with centuries of pain.
The stranger's gaze locked on her.
"Who," his voice was deep, like thunder smothered in velvet, "dares to wake me?"
Selene swallowed hard, gripping the iron bars for balance. "Not… intentionally, I assure you."
His eyes narrowed. "You carry magic."
"Unfortunately," she said dryly, "the local authorities noticed that too."
The faintest ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You are not afraid."
"Oh, I am," she said, "just too stubborn to show it."
He stepped closer. Chains still hung from his wrists, glowing with fading runes. The air around him vibrated with power — old, beautiful, and tragic.
"Your magic," he said slowly, "is familiar."
Selene frowned. "Do I know you?"
He studied her as if searching for something buried deep in her soul. "No," he murmured, almost to himself. "But your blood does."
Before she could reply, the guard's voice echoed from down the corridor. "What in the hells—?!"
Roderic appeared with two soldiers, their torches flickering wildly. When they saw the figure standing amidst the broken stone, their faces turned white.
"Sound the alarm!" one shouted. "The cursed one—he's awake!"
The man beside her turned his head slightly. "Cursed one?"
Selene's breath caught. "Who are you?"
He looked back at her with a calm, terrible grace.
"Prince Auren of Elarion."
Her mind flashed with recognition — a name from ancient ballads, a ghost of a kingdom that vanished a thousand years ago.
"That's impossible," she whispered. "You're a myth."
He smiled faintly. "So they all say."
The guards lunged forward. Auren raised his hand — and the torches blew out.
Darkness devoured the hall.
Selene heard screams, the clang of metal, and the wet crack of bone. The air filled with magic so cold it burned. When the silence finally settled, she opened her eyes to find the soldiers frozen in place — eyes wide, bodies turned to ash.
Auren stood amidst the ruins, his eyes glowing like dying suns.
"Do you understand now," he said softly, "why they call me cursed?"
Selene's heart pounded. "And what do you plan to do with me?"
He looked at her for a long moment, then stepped forward. "You woke me. You bear magic that echoes the curse that binds me."
"And?" she asked, defiant despite the tremor in her voice.
"And," he said, reaching through the bars, fingers brushing her cheek with startling gentleness, "you may be the one fated to end it."
Selene's breath caught. The touch sent a shiver through her — warmth and cold all at once, like the meeting of life and death.
"I don't believe in fate," she whispered.
Auren's gaze darkened. "You will."
He broke her chains with a single touch. The iron hissed and fell apart like melted wax.
"Come," he said. "The kingdom above us is long dead. The world you know is not the one you left."
Selene hesitated. "If I go with you, what happens to me?"
He turned away, his silhouette framed by the rising red glow of the ruins.
"That," he said quietly, "depends on how long you can resist the curse."