Alya had barely slept.Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it—that door.Not the grand oak ones of the castle halls, but the small, ancient slab of blackened wood hidden in the eastern wing. The one that pulsed like a heartbeat when she'd gotten too close yesterday.
Lucien's warning still echoed in her head: Never speak to it. Never answer if it speaks to you.
She pulled her shawl tighter, pacing in the middle of her chamber. Her pulse was fast. The marks on her arm felt warmer than usual. Lucien had left at dawn for some meeting, leaving her with nothing but silence and a dozen unanswered questions.
She told herself it was curiosity. That she just wanted to see if the Heart of the Curse reacted only in his presence.But a small, dangerous part of her wanted to prove him wrong.
The eastern wing was colder than she remembered. Morning light barely touched the corridors here; dust hung in the air like the ghosts of centuries past. Alya walked slowly, listening to the faint creak of the floor beneath her slippers.
Her fingers brushed the sleeve over her marks.
She remembered how they had burned when she stood in front of the door yesterday, how the whispers had slithered into her thoughts. Lucien had been there then. This time… she was alone.
Or so she thought.
When she reached the last turn, she stopped. The door was there, at the very end of the hall, just as she remembered black wood, no handle, no hinges. The air around it shimmered faintly, as if she were looking at heat waves.
She took a step forward. The temperature dropped.
Her marks pulsed.
He can't protect you forever. The whisper was faint at first, curling like smoke around her thoughts.
Alya swallowed hard. "What are you?" she asked under her breath.
Silence.
She frowned, taking another step. "Do you even exist, or are you just—"
The pulse in her arm throbbed.
And the door… shivered.
She froze.
The wood rippled, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble. From deep within, something knocked. Once. Twice. Slow, deliberate.
Alya's heart hammered. "You can hear me," she whispered.
The knocking stopped. Then, softly like a sigh breathed directly into her ear—came the words: Closer.
Her instincts screamed at her to run. But her feet carried her forward until she stood a mere breath away from the door.
"Lucien says you're dangerous," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why?"
The answer came not in words, but in sensation.
Pain.A sudden, searing heat that raced from her marks up to her shoulder. She gasped, clutching her arm. The marks weren't just glowing they were spreading.
She stumbled back, but the door followed. Or rather—the shadow it cast stretched toward her like a living thing.
He lies to you.
The whisper was sharper now, laced with something cold and hungry.
We are not your enemy.
Her breath came fast, clouding in the cold air. "Then… what are you?" she demanded.
This time, the voice didn't hesitate.
We are what you were meant to be.
The marks flared brighter, burning her skin until she cried out. And in that moment, she realized this wasn't just some curse sealed behind wood. It was alive. And it wanted her.
Somewhere down the corridor, boots struck the stone. Fast, deliberate.
Lucien's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Alya! Step away from the door!"
She turned, startled, but the moment she blinked
the door was still again.
Silent. Innocent. As if nothing had happened.
Lucien was at her side in seconds, his hand gripping her shoulder. His eyes swept over her, then dropped to her arm. His jaw tightened. "You spoke to it."
Alya tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat. She didn't want to lie—but she also didn't want to admit that part of her had liked hearing its voice.
Lucien didn't wait for a confession. He pulled her away, his grip unyielding. "If you ever do that again," he said, voice low with something dangerously close to fear, "it won't just answer you. It will take you."
Behind them, the door pulsed once.
As if it had heard him and disagreed.
Morning crept into Alya's chamber like an uninvited guest cold, pale, and heavy with silence.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her arm throbbing beneath the sleeve of her nightdress. The marks had stopped glowing sometime after Lucien dragged her away from the eastern wing, but they hadn't faded. If anything, they were darker now, etched into her skin like permanent ink.
A soft knock broke the stillness.
Before she could answer, the door opened, and Lucien stepped in. He carried a silver tray with a steaming cup and a small vial of amber liquid. His face was unreadable, though his eyes lingered on her arm with a flicker of something she couldn't name.
"You should drink this," he said, setting the tray on the bedside table. "It will dull the ache."
Alya ignored the cup. "I want the truth."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "You can't handle"
"I already heard it speak to me," she snapped, cutting him off. "I think I can handle a few more words."
For a long moment, he just stood there, watching her. Then he sighed and sat in the chair across from her bed.
"That door," he began slowly, "isn't just a seal. It's a tether. A binding placed centuries ago to contain what we call the Heart of the Curse. Most people who get near it… hear nothing. But you" He paused, his gaze sharp. "You're different. The marks on your arm prove that."
Alya's throat tightened. "What do they mean?"
"They mean," he said carefully, "that it recognizes you."
She stared at him. "Recognizes me? As what?"
Lucien leaned back, crossing his arms. "That's not something I'm ready to tell you."
Her frustration flared. "You drag me into this place, tell me not to go near the door, and when it brands me like some kind of " She broke off, shaking her head. "You owe me more than riddles, Lucien."
His gaze softened, but only slightly. "If I tell you everything now, you'll run straight back to it. And if that happens…" He hesitated, as though choosing his words with care. "…you won't come back the same. Or at all."
They sat in tense silence, the air between them thick with unspoken questions. Finally, Lucien reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded scrap of parchment.
"This," he said, handing it to her, "was written by someone who stood where you stand now. Before the curse took them."
Alya unfolded it. The ink was faded, but the words were clear:
It calls me by a name I have never heard, yet feels like my own.
Her skin prickled. "Is this supposed to comfort me?" she asked quietly.
"No," Lucien said. "It's supposed to remind you that curiosity isn't harmless here."
He rose to leave, pausing at the door. "Stay away from the eastern wing, Alya. Next time, I might not be able to pull you back."
And then he was gone, leaving her with the parchment, the marks on her arm, and the chilling realization that the Heart of the Curse knew something about her… that she didn't.