The first thing Alya felt when she woke was the weight in her chest not the heavy kind from sleep, but the kind that came from dread.Her heart was already pounding before her eyes even opened.
The room around her was unfamiliar yet hauntingly beautiful: high vaulted ceilings, curtains of crimson silk, and a chandelier dripping with crystal. Sunlight spilled in through tall windows, painting everything gold.
For a moment, she thought maybe she'd imagined it all the garden, the veiled woman, the thing that crawled from the fountain.
Then she moved her arm.
Pain flared sharp and hot, like she'd touched a branding iron. Alya hissed, pulling back the loose sleeve of her nightgown.
The breath caught in her throat.
A black mark curled across her skin, starting at her wrist and twisting up toward her elbow a pattern of thorned vines and jagged runes she couldn't read. The lines shimmered faintly, like ink that refused to stay still.
Her fingers hovered over it. The mark felt warm, as though alive.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "This can't be real…"
But deep down, she knew it was. That garden hadn't been a dream. The veiled woman's words hadn't been an illusion. And Lucien whatever he truly was had tried to protect her.
A knock echoed against the heavy wooden door, startling her.
Before she could answer, the door creaked open, and a tall man in a black uniform stepped inside. His face was expressionless, but his eyes flickered to her arm before quickly darting away.
"The prince requests your presence," he said curtly.
Alya's fingers tightened over her sleeve, hiding the mark. "Tell him I'm not feeling"
"Now," the man interrupted, his tone brooking no refusal.
She swallowed hard, pushing herself to her feet. Her legs trembled, but she forced them to move. The man didn't speak again as he escorted her down a long hallway lined with oil paintings. Each canvas depicted the same figure a man with Lucien's eyes standing in a landscape of ruin.
They stopped in front of massive double doors carved with symbols that made her skin crawl. The guard pushed them open and gestured for her to enter.
Lucien sat at the far end of the room, in a throne that looked more like an execution chair—iron, heavy, and draped in black. Sunlight from the tall windows painted half his face in gold, the other half in shadow.
"Sit," he said, without looking at her.
Alya hesitated. "Why am I here?"
Lucien's gaze lifted, pinning her in place. His eyes were no longer glowing silver, but they still held that unnatural intensity.
"Because you crossed into the eastern wing last night."
Her breath caught. "You knew?"
His mouth curved not in a smile, but in something sharper.
"I warned you for a reason. The garden is… a threshold. You touched it, it touched you back."
Alya's sleeve felt suddenly heavier. She clenched her fists under the table. "And this mark? What is it?"
Lucien's gaze flicked to her arm, and for the briefest moment, something like regret crossed his face.
"It's the beginning," he said quietly.
"Of what?"
"The curse binding itself to you."
The words sank into her like ice water. Alya shook her head. "Then remove it. You're the prince here you must have some kind of power "
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"Power doesn't mean control. If it did, I wouldn't be chained to this throne."
His words raised a dozen more questions, but before she could speak, the doors slammed open.
A woman swept inside, her gown whispering against the marble floor. She was breathtaking hair like spun gold, eyes the color of a clear summer sky. But the way she looked at Alya was like a blade being unsheathed.
"So this is the bride?" she said, voice dripping with disdain.
Lucien's tone turned sharp. "Leave."
The woman ignored him, circling Alya slowly.
"You shouldn't have entered the eastern wing," she murmured, almost to herself. "Now it's only a matter of time."
Alya's skin prickled. "Do you people always speak in riddles?"
The woman's lips curved in a cruel smile. "When the curse blooms, you'll understand."
Before Alya could reply, she swept out of the room as suddenly as she'd come.
Lucien stood, the iron chains dragging against the floor as he moved toward Alya.
"You need to stay in your chambers tonight. No matter what you hear, no matter who calls your name don't open the door."
Her heart pounded harder. "Why? What happens tonight?"
Lucien's expression darkened.
"The mark… will start to hunger."
Alya's throat went dry. She wanted to demand answers, to scream that she'd never agreed to any of this but the way he looked at her, like he was bracing for something inevitable, silenced her.
Back in her chamber, Alya paced the floor. She tried to convince herself that this was all some elaborate nightmare, but every time she rolled up her sleeve, the living black vines on her skin whispered otherwise. Sometimes they even seemed to shift when she wasn't looking.
As the sun began to set, the air grew colder. Somewhere far below, in the depths of the castle, she heard the faint rattle of chains.
And then faintly, almost sweetly someone whispered her name.
"Alya…"
Her blood ran cold.
The voice came from the other side of the door.
Alya froze in place.
The whisper was soft, almost tender like the way her mother used to call her name when waking her for school.But that was impossible. Her mother was miles away, in a world untouched by this cursed castle.
She took a step toward the door before she even realized she was moving.The air felt heavier now, the silence between the whispers almost… expectant.
"Alya…"
The voice again gentler this time, but closer. Right outside the door.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She remembered Lucien's warning. No matter who calls your name… don't open the door.
She swallowed hard. "Who's there?" Her voice was barely louder than a breath.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the voice answered.
"It's me."
The words were warm, familiar. And that was what terrified her.
It wasn't her mother's voice anymore. It was Daniel's the boy who used to walk her home from school, the one she hadn't seen since leaving her old life behind. He shouldn't be here. He couldn't be here.
Her hands trembled. She pressed her palm against the cold wood of the door. "Daniel? How how are you here?"
"You left without saying goodbye." His tone was wounded, almost accusing. "I had to find you."
She squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.
From the corner of her vision, she caught movement. She turnedThe mark on her arm was glowing faintly now, the black vines pulsing like they carried a heartbeat of their own.
Her breath quickened."Alya…" The voice outside shifted again. This time, it was Lucien. Low. Commanding.
"Open the door."
She backed away. "No. You're not him."
"If you don't, it will hurt more."
The words were wrong. The tone wasn't his. Whatever was on the other side wasn't Lucien—wasn't anyone she knew.
The vines on her arm flared hotter, and a strange hunger curled in her stomach—an ache she didn't understand. It wasn't hunger for food. It was deeper. Stranger. And the closer she got to the door, the more it eased.
She realized it then. The mark wanted her to open it.
Her back hit the far wall. She wrapped her arms around herself, digging her nails into her skin to keep from moving. "No," she whispered to both herself and the thing outside. "I'm not opening it."
For a while, there was no sound. Then, a single knock soft, polite, almost mocking.
"Soon," the voice said.
The temperature in the room dropped sharply, her breath misting in the air. Then, as quickly as it had come, the presence was gone.
Alya collapsed onto the bed, clutching her marked arm. The vines had stopped glowing, but the ache in her chest lingered.
She didn't know how much longer she could resist whatever this was.And she had a terrible feeling that tonight had only been a test.