The moon hung low and crimson, casting blood-red shadows over the stone halls of Castle D'Aragon. Velvet drapes whispered as the cold night breeze seeped through the cracks, carrying with it the scent of charred forests and distant thunder.
Evelyne stood before the mirror in the chamber her mother once called sanctuary. Now, it felt like a tomb. Ivory silk hugged her slender frame like a second skin, heavy with embroidered thorns that crawled up her arms and across her chest. The dress was beautiful, but to her, it was a shackle—a symbol of a fate she did not choose.
Her pale fingers trembled as she traced the jagged patterns etched in silver thread. Tomorrow, I become a warlord's bride. Tomorrow, I lose myself.
Behind her, the soft rustle of footsteps made her heart jump.
"Evelyne." The nursemaid's voice was gentle but firm. "You must be ready. Lord Virelian expects you at dawn."
Evelyne swallowed the rising tide of panic. "I'm not ready."
"You have no choice."
The heavy oak door creaked open, and a shadow filled the threshold. Lady Seraphina Vex entered, her black gown trailing like spilled ink. Her eyes gleamed with cruel calculation, her lips curved in a faint, unreadable smile.
"The realm is bleeding, child. Your union with Kael Virelian will be the salve," she said, voice like silk over steel. "Refusing him would bring ruin on us all."
Evelyne's gaze hardened. "I do not want to be saved by a monster."
Seraphina's smile deepened. "Monsters make the best saviors."
The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Evelyne alone with the echo of her own heartbeat.
Later that night, when the castle lay quiet beneath the blood moon's gaze, Evelyne crept from her chamber. The weight of silk and thorns dragged at her, but her resolve burned hotter.
Through winding corridors and shattered halls, she moved like a shadow, her bare feet silent on cold stone. Her destination: the ancient forest of Velmire—a place whispered to be cursed, where no noble dared to tread.
The trees rose like silent sentinels, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. A chill wrapped around her as she stepped beneath the canopy, darkness swallowing her whole.
Suddenly, a low growl shattered the silence. Evelyne froze.
From the shadows emerged a figure clad in battered armor, eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural light. A sword hung at his hip, but his hands were empty—open, as if awaiting a challenge.
"Who dares trespass in Velmire?" His voice was gravel, edged with ice.
Evelyne's breath caught. The man's face was half-hidden beneath a hood, but those piercing gray eyes—haunted, fierce—held her captive.
"I am Evelyne D'Aragon," she whispered, "and I run from death."
He studied her for a long moment. Then, without warning, a ghost of a smile brushed his lips.
"Then you will find no death with me. But be warned—Velmire does not forgive the weak."
As the blood moon dipped behind the twisted branches, Evelyne felt the first true flicker of hope.
And the beginning of a darkness she could never escape.