“I am King Keiren,” he says, his voice carrying like thunder, “and this castle is a prison. For you… and for me.” A hush falls across the room. Even the thousands of candles illuminating the massive room dare not flicker. “Long ago, each of your regions made a deal with a dragon. But that’s only one side of the story.”
Of course he would claim there was more to it. I roll my eyes and swear the king notices because he visibly tenses.
“What they never tell you is what came before,” he continues. “My father hunted the last great dragon. The creature killed him—and cursed every descendant in his bloodline. I was his sole heir. So it bound me to this place, cursing me to rule from behind stone walls, in shadow, unable to leave. Not until the curse is broken.”
He speaks like a man telling a bedtime story to children. But there’s something simmering beneath the calm words—something ancient and dangerous.
“In exchange for protection,” he continues, “your ancestors agreed to send potential brides each year when the Bloodmoon rises. Candidates strong enough to face the Bloodmoon Trials and prove themselves worthy. Strong enough to break the curse and restore Abrellia to its former glory.
“The dragon believes mankind has strayed,” he adds quietly. “That if we redeem ourselves, it should be by merit, not inheritance. Not conquest. Only someone worthy of bearing both crown and consequence could end it.”
His gaze flicks back to me and lingers. His eyes are so blue they burn—not with the kind of fire that warms. The kind that devours.
“To survive the three Trials is to earn the right to rule.” He pauses, looking back to the others. “To break the curse and become queen.”
The words strike like a hammer against frozen water. I feel the first fracture spread through me.
“But none have succeeded,” he continues, voice steady. “Not yet.”
He exhales slowly.
“The dragon granted this kingdom three hundred Bloodmoons to prove we were worthy of survival.” His eyes lock on mine, unflinching. “You are the last brides he will ever bring here.”
The truth settles heavy in my chest. Either one of us survives the Trials and breaks the curse—or our entire world turns to ash.
The air feels too thick to breathe. His gaze—his challenge—is branded into my skin.
“But those troubles are for tomorrow,” the king says. “So be merry. Drink. Eat. Dance. Tonight, you are safe.”
It’s a lie. I feel it in my marrow.
Still, we obey.
Music swells, bright and hollow. Servants move as if nothing has changed, as if the world hasn’t just been balanced on the edge of a blade. Goblets are pressed into trembling hands. Laughter flickers, forced and brittle, breaking apart almost as soon as it forms.
I lift my cup, though my fingers feel numb around the stem. Across the hall, the other girls do the same—smiling when expected, bowing their heads, pretending this is just another feast.
But the words won’t leave me.
You are the last.
They echo with every note of the music, with every step of the dance, with every heartbeat I can’t slow. Tomorrow looms like a shadow stretching toward us all, patient and inevitable.
And no matter how bright the hall burns, I can already smell the ash.
The atmosphere practically oozes danger as the king takes his place at the banquet table. I know it; we all do. Just days ago, a monstrous dragon snatched each of us from our homes. Now we sit in a cursed castle, dressed like offerings, staring down a so-called king who demands that we survive deadly Trials for a chance to break some centuries-old curse so that our entire world won’t perish.
What in the nine circles of hell is this? This man, thisking, is the reason my cousin—and saints only know how many other women—have been sacrificed in the name of restoring glory to a kingdom that no longer exists.
Seraphina moves first, gliding to the king’s side with practiced ease. Her gown trails behind her like a royal decree. The others follow without a word, their silk slippers whispering across the floor. I wait until last, then take the farthest seat, as far from that liar as possible.
“Come,” the king says once we’re all seated, “tell me your names.”
Our names? Is he serious? After he just explained to me the importance of withholding it mere days ago?
One by one, the girls offer them, soft and nervous, like prayers whispered before a hanging.
His eyes find mine again. “And you?” His voice is calm, but the tension in the room sharpens like a blade.
