The moonlight spilled through the tall, arched windows of the castle, painting the room in silver and shadows. Princess Elara stood by the balcony, her heart still racing from the encounter with the king. The golden chains around her wrists felt heavier tonight, as if they carried not just her curse but the weight of fate itself.
A soft knock echoed through the corridor. Elara's pulse quickened. "Enter," she called, her voice barely steady. The doors creaked open to reveal Lysander, the king's most trusted advisor, his eyes serious and wary. "Your Highness," he said, bowing slightly, "there are whispers in the castle—secrets that may threaten both you and the king."
Elara's gaze hardened. Danger, it seemed, was not just in the curse but in every shadow around her. She took a deep breath, letting courage bloom where fear had lingered. "Then we must face them," she whispered. "Whatever comes, I will not run."
Magic flickered faintly in the air again, subtle but undeniable, hinting at the unseen forces that watched, tested, and guided her. And somewhere in the dark, the king's presence lingered—powerful, mysterious, and terrifyingly close. Elara realized that each step deeper into the castle was also a step deeper into the mysteries of their entwined destinies.