Four winters. That's how long I've counted. Not in days, not in hours—those lost meaning after the first year. Only winters, marked by the aching chill that seeps deeper into stone and skin. There is no window, no sliver of sky to see. Only air that sharpens like knives, only shadows that deepen, and silence that suffocates.
But what disturbs me most isn't the darkness or the cold.
It's the absence.
No rats. No insects. No crawling things in the corners. No scratching in the dark. No spiders spinning webs. No smell of rot—just sterile dust and unmoving air. As though the dungeon has been scrubbed of all life. As if even vermin dare not stay. This place feels... curated. Hollow. A tomb not just for flesh, but for torture.
I scratch another line into the stone wall. The marks mean nothing now, carved with a splinter
of my own bone—perhaps from my shoulder, I don't remember. But the motion is ritual. It is survival. It is proof that I still move. That I still breathe.
That I still remember her.
Roxail.
That was the name she gave me. Not Your Highness, not The Black Prince, not heir or curse or monster.
Lariette. Mother.
Her voice wrapped around that name like silk. She said it softly, always with a smile that made the weight of the crown feel light. She died four winters ago. In front of me. In my arms. My last memory—her lifeless body crumpled on marble, blood soaking the hem of her gown. And in my hand—a blade.
The shouting came after. Guards. Echoes. Hands grabbing. Then blackness.
And when I woke, I was here.
The iron door creaks.
Not the usual hatch where stale bread and cloudy water are shoved through. The actual door—sealed for years. It groans like something ancient rousing from death.
I don't rise. I don't speak. I remain on the floor, legs crossed, shackles cold around bone, hands resting on knees. Stone-like. Forgotten.
Light spills in—dim, flickering candlelight. It stings.
A man steps into view. A servant guard, unkempt and broad, armor tarnished and face sour with disdain. In his hands—a tray, chipped and rattling.
He strides forward and flings the tray at my feet. Soup sloshes out, steam hissing against cold stone. Bread rolls to the edge of my chains.
"Your meal of the month," he mutters.
I don't move.
He sneers. "Monster."
Silence.
He laughs, hoarse. Mocking.
"Well, I've got news for ya!, I'm going on vacations, Hah!"
I smirk, "May you never return."
He clicks his tongue, then turns toward the corridor.
"Come here." he calls.
A soft shuffle. Then footsteps.
A figure approaches—womanly, cloaked and hooded in grey. She steps just into the candle's edge but stays outside the cell. Her face is hidden, her stance still. Watching.
The man trudges out past her. Reaches the iron door. Looks back with a grin.
"She's in charge of the cursed prince now," he says, voice dripping with cruel amusement. From his belt he pulls a set of keys and tosses them—clinking at her feet.
"Don't lose those. Unless you want him murdering."
He chuckles and steps out, shutting the door with a clang. Metal grinds. Locks twist.
He whistles as he vanishes into the depths.
Silence returns.
The tray lies overturned. Soup dripping. Bread gathering dust. The woman does not speak. She does not enter.
She watches.
The tray lies overturned. Soup dripping. Bread gathering dust.
The woman remains motionless. One step inside the light, but beyond reach. She doesn't pick up the keys. Doesn't turn away. She just watches me.
I remain as I am.
A breath passes. Two. She finally bends down—not to unlock the door, not to approach, but to retrieve the keys. Her movements are calm. Controlled.
She turns without a word and begins to walk away.
But just before her shadow slips from the candle's edge, she stops.
In a voice barely louder than a whisper, but sharp as broken glass, she says:
"I'm here to fulfil a purpose. Your highness, do you have one too?"
And then she is gone.
The door did not open. My shackles did not loosen. Nothing changed.
Except the air.
Something in it shifted. As if the silence had been disturbed. As if her question had awakened something long dead.
I do not move.
Purpose..? Do I even know who I am?
The cursed prince keeps his gaze on the stone.
And waits.