Rain poured mercilessly over the small village of Theral, drowning the soil in thick mud as thunder cracked across the gray sky. Inside the chief's home, silence reigned. Until—
"We have no gold left!" the village chief shouted, slamming his weathered hand against the wooden table. His voice trembled, not with age, but fear. Across from him stood a cloaked messenger, his black armor glinting faintly from the hearth's dim glow.
"Then His Lordship expects a different form of compensation," the knight replied coldly. "The agreed amount was not met. You've had three seasons. The debt is overdue."
The chief swallowed hard. Desperation danced in his eyes. "We have... one thing," he said after a long pause. "A girl. The daughter of my late concubine. She's of no use here."
Lyra stood silently just outside the door, the words slicing into her like cold wind. Of no use. She had known, somewhere in her gut, that her low birth would one day be weaponized against her. Still, it didn't make the sting hurt any less. Her heart pounded in her chest, confused and terrified. They were giving her away. Like livestock.
The knight turned. "Describe her."
"She has crimson eyes. A rarity, some say cursed, some say blessed. She's quiet. Obedient. You'll get no trouble from her."
Crimson eyes.
The knight's gaze flickered with interest. He bowed his head slightly. "Very well. His Lordship will accept the offer. Prepare her. She leaves at dawn."
The castle was nothing like she had imagined.
After days of travel under watchful eyes, Lyra had arrived at the large estate hidden deep within the mountains. It was ancient, yet preserved—stone walls laced with thick ivy, towers rising into the clouds, and a kind of stillness that felt untouched by time.
The moment she arrived, she was taken by maids since she was to be seen immediately; she was bathed, dressed in a deep wine-colored gown, and led through winding halls without a word.
Until she met him.
Lord Kyro.
He stood tall in the moonlit chamber, dressed in black robes lined with silver. His hair was dark and messy, hanging around his sharp, elegant features, but it was his eyes—gray and hollow—that spoke of lifetimes locked in solitude.
When their gazes met, something ancient stirred. Lyra's breath caught. He was… handsome. In a distant, dangerous kind of way. Her heart skipped before she could stop it.
"Your eyes..." he murmured, stepping closer. "They're just like the stone."
"What stone?" Lyra asked quietly.
He gestured toward a nearby table, where a small box sat. Inside lay a red gemstone—dull, scratched, but nearly the exact hue of her irises.
"The one left behind by the witch who cursed me," he said. "I've read about a bloodline... red-eyed women said to carry the power to break even the cruelest spells."
Her breath caught again. Was that why she was here?
He continued, voice steady. "I was cursed as a child. This castle is my prison. I cannot leave it—not for a moment. But perhaps, with you, that could change."
A knock echoed. A tall woman entered, draped in veils and cloaks of dried herbs. The witch Kyro had summoned.
"We begin now," she said, not unkindly. "Girl, offer your hand."
Lyra hesitated, her heart racing. Her hands trembled as she extended one forward, eyes flicking nervously between the witch and the looming lord. She didn't want this—not the ritual, not the curse, not this strange fate—but what choice did she have? She was alone. She was offered as payment. Her future belonged to someone else now.
Her mind spun. "What is happening right now?" she thought, panic rising. "Am I being used for a ritual?"
The fear clawed at her chest, but she nodded slowly. There was no way out. She had to survive. She had to obey.
"...Okay," she whispered, almost to herself. She obeyed. Her blood was drawn, mixed with Kyro's, into a shallow bowl. Strange runes were painted on their palms.
"Now," the witch said, guiding their hands together, "hold tight."
The moment their palms met, a heat surged between them, the runes were glowing, flickering, and at this moment, they both had a vision. A child, wrapped in silk, was cradled in a quiet nursery when the doors slammed open. A woman, wild-eyed and dressed in dark cloaks, stormed in holding a small box.
She smiled sweetly at first, pretending to be at peace. "I brought a gift for the young heir," she said.
But as she stepped closer, her expression twisted into one of hate. She opened the box and whispered a curse, low and venomous. The words were sharp, forbidden—dark magic.
The child's mother, the former lord's wife, overheard and screamed, yet the guards rushed in too late.
The witch growled, "Here's your gift! You may have strength, but it's useless if you're trapped within four walls forever." In the same breath, arrows struck her chest. Her body crumpled, lifeless, but the curse had already sealed itself into the infant's fate.
Lyra gasped as the vision vanished.
The runes flared once more before dissolving into fine dust, sinking into their skin, leaving no trace.
Kyro swayed.
"It's done," the witch said. "The ritual has linked you. From now on, you may walk outside... but only when she is with you."
Both stared at her in shock.
The witch turned to leave but paused, smiling playfully at Lyra. "Oh. And remember, girl... this curse may break completely. But only if you fall for him."
She laughed softly and disappeared into the night.
Lyra's face flushed.
Kyro raised an eyebrow, amused. "Are you alright?"
She turned away, arms crossed. "Tomorrow... I'll tell you what I expect as a reward."
He chuckled under his breath. "Reward? That was never discussed."
But he didn't argue. He watched her leave, her fiery eyes catching the moonlight like the very stone he'd kept hidden all these years.
Something told him she would be the key to everything.
And maybe... just maybe, not all curses were meant to last forever.