The sky over the province of Lindbrook was draped in the color of wet ash, as if the clouds themselves refused to witness the transaction taking place that bleak morning. The wind was not merely moving air; it was a low, mournful wail passing through the skeletal branches of the leafless trees, whispering secrets that Evangeline dared not interpret. She stood at the jagged threshold between her family's crumbling estate and the "Black Road" that led to the strongholds of House Hastings. She could feel the damp chill of the earth seeping through her worn leather boots and into her very bones—a cold that reminded her that winter in these lands showed no mercy to the weak, much like the people who inhabited them.
Behind her, the house where she had spent her entire life looked like a stranger to her now, appearing to shrink back in shame at the fate of its inhabitants. Its cracked stone walls and the roof that groaned under the weight of time no longer offered a sanctuary. Before her sat the black carriage, crouching like a predatory beast waiting for its prey in funereal silence. It was unlike any vehicle she had ever seen; it was clad in charred wood, intricately adorned with silver engravings of ravens with interlocking wings. The crest of House Hastings was centered on the door like an unbreakable seal, exhaling an ancient mystery that far exceeded the understanding of the simple village folk.
"Evangeline... please, look at me!"
The voice of Julian, her younger brother, tore through the solemn silence of the moment. She turned to him with a heart constricted by agony, a lump forming in her throat that threatened to stifle her breath. He looked so frail beneath his oversized wool coat, his face—once radiant with life—now the color of aged parchment. His sunken eyes shimmered with tears that his pride refused to let fall in front of the strangers. He clutched her hands, and they were terrifyingly cold. As a healer skilled in the language of herbs, she knew this cold was not born of the weather; it was death creeping slowly inward, biding its time to claim the last remains of her family.
Julian pleaded with a trembling voice, begging her not to go, telling her he would rather die breathing the air of their own lands than live knowing the price of his survival was her sale to that "monster," as the people called him. Rumors of Lord Valerians filled the taverns and hearths—stories of a man without a heart, and a castle that swallowed brides and never spat them back out. But Evangeline forced a faint smile, trying to cast a shadow of strength over her face that she did not feel in her depths. She reached out to brush a stray lock of blonde hair from his brow, which was damp with a cold sweat, and told him firmly that legends were made to frighten the weak. She was going on a mission of exchange: his life for her presence in that castle, a trade she deemed more than fair in a world that gave nothing for free.
This tender moment was severed by the voice of Silas, her stepfather, who stood like a heavy shadow behind them. Silas represented everything she loathed—greed cloaked in the mask of nobility. To him, Evangeline was not a daughter; she was a "debt of honor" with which he had paid off his mounting arrears and secured the protection of the terrifying House Hastings. His eyes gleamed with a predatory satisfaction as he watched the black carriage wait. He cared nothing for Julian's tears or Evangeline's pallor; his only concern was that this delivery be completed before the Lord changed his mind. Evangeline cast a look of pure contempt his way, warning him that if a single dose of her brother's medicine went missing, or if he mistreated him in her absence, she would find a way to ensure the Hastings curse reached him in his very bed.
A tall man descended from the carriage. He was not an ordinary servant; he wore a leather mask that covered the lower half of his face, and his eyes were void of any human emotion, as if he were merely a machine operated by the dark soul of the castle itself. He did not utter a single word but opened the luxurious door, lined with black silk, and gestured for her to enter. As she placed her foot on the wooden step, a strange shiver ran through her, as if her body were warning her that she was crossing a gate of no return. The scent inside the carriage was a peculiar mixture of ancient sandalwood and something else—something like the smell of rain hitting hot iron.
As soon as the door closed, the iron lock clicked with the finality of a guillotine blade. The carriage lurched forward, and with every rotation of the wheels, Evangeline felt the distance growing between her and her childhood, between her and Julian, and between her and everything she had ever known. Looking through the narrow slits covered by brass bars, she saw Julian collapse to his knees in the dust, screaming her name, while Silas remained standing like a wax statue, unmoving. She closed her eyes tightly, clutching her small bag which held her late father's journals and a pouch of lavender seeds—her only symbols of hope.
The journey lasted for long hours through forests Evangeline had never seen; towering trees with interlocking branches that blocked out the sun, making the day feel like a permanent twilight. These were the "Raven Lands," the forbidden territory where the dominion of House Hastings began. Images battled in her mind: was Valerian truly a man? Or was he a cursed entity as they said? She remembered the stories of the three previous brides—those who were said to have vanished under mysterious circumstances, leaving nothing behind but tattered dresses in the castle vaults. She did not fear death itself, but she feared becoming just another number in the dark history of this family.
As sunset approached, the air grew palpably colder, and the scent of salt spray began to seep into the carriage, signaling their proximity to the rocky cliffs where the "Black Citadel" stood. Suddenly, the carriage stopped. When the door opened, Evangeline was faced with a sight that surpassed all her radical imaginings of gothic horror. The castle stood majestic as a giant of black volcanic stone, its walls appearing to bleed shadows, and its sharp spires piercing the low-hanging clouds. There were no flowers, no greenery—only barren rocks and a turbulent sea below, crashing against the stone foundations with savage violence.
Evangeline walked between two rows of silent guards clad in full black armor. Their faces were entirely hidden behind visors, making her feel as though she were being led by ghosts rather than men. She crossed the drawbridge that groaned under her footsteps, and for a second, she looked down into the abyss below. A light dizziness took hold of her; that chasm represented the gap between her past life and the void that awaited her.
Entering the great hall, she was greeted by a profound silence—a silence that had a physical weight against her ears. The ceilings were so high they were lost in the gloom, and the massive chandeliers held candles that burned with a strange bluish flame, casting distorted shadows on the marble statues lining the sides. At the end of this legendary hall, behind a wide table of ebony wood, he sat.
Lord Valerian did not wear a crown, and he did not look like a monster at first, but rather a man overflowing with a cold majesty that made one's breath hitch. His hair was the color of the midnight hour, and his skin was so pale that his blue veins were clearly visible beneath the candlelight. But what caught her attention immediately were his hands; his left hand held a crystal glass with icy grace, while his right hand was covered in a glove of thick, fine black leather. The glove extended past the wrist, appearing to hide a heavy, dark secret beneath its surface.
Valerian slowly raised his eyes, and they were the color of a storm—a mixture of grey and black with a strange glint that did not resemble human light. He stared at her for seconds that felt like an eternity, as if he were reading every thought in her mind and every beat of her trembling heart.
"You are late, Evangeline," the voice said. It was not a harsh voice, but it was deep, calm, and carried a rasp tinged with sorrow—the voice of a man accustomed to hearing nothing but the echo of his own words within hollow walls. "I thought Silas would deliver you to the devil before sundown to avoid looking into my eyes."
Evangeline gathered every ounce of pride she possessed and lifted her chin, defying the aura that surrounded him. "I am here because I chose to be here, My Lord. I came to pay a price, and I do not need the blessing of Silas or the devil to do so."
Valerian moved slightly in his seat, and she heard a faint, dry laugh, entirely devoid of mirth. It sounded like the crackling of thin glass. "Choice... a fascinating word for someone walking toward their fate of their own volition. You do not yet realize what it means to be a wife of House Hastings. Here, choices fade, and souls become nothing more than debts to be paid."
He gestured with his bare left hand to the seat facing him. "Sit. The dinner shall begin, and the curse that inhabits these walls does not like to wait, nor does it like those who ignore its rituals."
Evangeline sat, feeling the wood beneath her as cold as ice. She looked at the table, which was laden with the finest foods, yet it looked in her eyes like a funeral feast. She knew that every bite she took here was a new nail in the coffin of her freedom, but she also knew that this was her only beginning to save Julian. She glanced at the black glove on his right hand again, wondering what that leather concealed—was it a deformity? A power? Or was it the seal that would define her destiny as a sacrificial bride?
At that moment, a sudden, powerful wind blew, making the candle flames stagger, and one of the distant chandeliers went out, plunging the hall into partial darkness. In that darkness, Evangeline saw a strange reflection in Valerian's eyes; it was not the reflection of the candles, but it seemed as if another soul were watching her from behind those grey pupils. There was no longer any room for retreat; the dinner had begun, and with it, the story of the curse that would change the face of the House of Hastings forever.