The road to the castle twisted upward like a dark vein along the mountain. The carriage wheels creaked. The horses' steps echoed like hollow thunder. No one spoke. The guards didn't look at her. It was as if she was already a ghost.
Elara watched the world through the carriage window — her village growing smaller, swallowed by fog and distance. When it finally vanished, her breath caught.
It's done. I cannot go back.
The mountain path narrowed. Pines rose like black spears around them. The air grew sharper, colder, biting at her lungs. Snow gathered in shadows though spring was blooming below.
And then—
The castle came into view.
The Obsidian Keep was far larger up close than any drawing or whispered rumor could capture. The walls were carved from stone darker than night, veined with deep crimson cracks like old wounds. Spires tore into the sky like claws. A bridge crossed a chasm so deep Elara could not see the bottom.
It did not look like a palace made by human hands.
It looked like something that had grown there.
Something ancient.
Something alive.
The carriage passed through iron gates that opened without anyone touching them.
Magic, then.
Real. Heavy. Thick in the air like smoke.
Elara's pulse hammered against her ribs.
They stopped in a courtyard paved with smooth black stone. A figure stood waiting.
The Steward.
An old man, slender and quiet, wrapped in dark robes lined with silver thread. His beard was white, his eyes a calm, unreadable grey — like he had seen centuries come and go, and grown tired of them all.
He bowed—deep, respectful.
"Lady Elara," he said softly. "Welcome to the Obsidian Keep."
His voice held neither joy nor sorrow.
Just expectation.
Elara stepped out of the carriage. Her boots clicked against the stone. She forced her spine straight.
"Where is—" The word almost choked her. "—the King?"
The steward did not blink. "His Majesty does not receive guests immediately."
"Guests?" Elara's laugh was quiet, sharp. "I was taken."
"Chosen," the steward corrected gently. Not with cruelty — but with certainty.
As if it were a fact, like gravity.
Elara opened her mouth, ready to argue, to demand answers, anything—
Then she heard it.
A faint sound.
Not like footsteps.
More like a whisper carried through stone.
She is here.
The steward's eyes flicked upward — the smallest movement, but Elara saw it.
The voice was not loud. Not close. Not even physical.
It came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Deep. Cold. Smooth as polished obsidian.
A voice that did not speak words — but possessed them.
Elara's breath froze in her chest.
"Take her to the eastern wing."
The steward bowed again — but not to Elara.
To the air.
"As you command, my King."
Elara's fingers curled at her sides.
He's watching.
Not seeing her.
Not touching her.
But watching.
The steward turned. "Please, follow me."
Elara walked through towering doors half her village could have walked through side by side. The halls were vast — too vast — lit with lanterns that burned with pale gold flame. No smoke. No scent. No sound.
The silence was unnatural.
A castle this large should echo with footsteps, servants, warmth, movement.
But it felt empty.
Like a tomb.
Elara swallowed. "Are there others here?"
The steward hesitated.
It was only half a second.
But she saw it.
"…Yes," he said finally. "But most do not walk these halls."
Most.
Not all.
The air shifted—cold brushing the back of her neck like a fingertip.
Her footsteps slowed.
"He can see me, can't he?"
The steward didn't stop walking. "His Majesty sees everything inside his keep."
The words hit like a blade sliding between ribs.
Elara didn't speak again.
Not because she was afraid.
But because fear had already sunk into her bones.
They reached a set of carved doors — elegant, dark wood etched with dragons coiled in flight. The steward opened one and gestured inside.
"This will be your room."
The chamber was beautiful — painfully so. A four-poster bed draped in velvet. Windows overlooking clouds. A fireplace flickering with silver flame. It was warm. Safe. Gentle.
A cage disguised as comfort.
The steward turned to leave.
"Wait," Elara said sharply. Her voice didn't waver. "What happens now?"
He looked at her with that same old, impossible calm.
"Now," he said, "you rest. He will… speak to you when he chooses."
The door closed.
Silence.
Real silence.
Elara stood still for a long moment.
Then she exhaled and let her knees give way, sinking to the edge of the bed.
Her hands shook.
Not from fear.
From anger.
Chosen? Owned? Taken?
No.
No, she would not accept that.
If she was trapped — then she would learn.
If he was a monster — then she would understand him.
If he had power — then she would find where it cracked.
She would not disappear like the brides before her.
She would carve her name into these walls.
I am not prey.
Elara stood. She walked to the balcony, threw open the window—
—and stopped.
The air outside was warm.
Not cold like before.
Warm like breath against skin.
A whisper slid across the back of her mind.
Not words.
Not at first.
Just presence.
Then—
"Are you afraid of me?"
The voice filled her.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Just… there.
Deep. Cold. Ancient.
Elara did not turn. She stared into the misted mountains.
"No," she said.
The silence afterward was sharp as a blade.
Then the voice returned—soft, dark, curious:
"You are lying."
Elara smiled, just barely.
"Maybe," she whispered. "But I am still here."
The air shifted.
Like something unseen leaned closer.
Close enough to feel.
Close enough to touch.
For the first time, his voice held… something else.
Not anger.
Not hunger.
Something like recognition.
"We will see."
The warmth vanished.
The room felt cold again.
Elara let out a slow breath, heart hammering.
Not because of fear.
Because of the truth that settled inside her chest like a spark waiting for kindling:
He was not a myth.
He was not a story.
He was real.
And her fate, from this moment on…
Was tied to his.