In the grand council hall of Velmora, a long carved oak table stood at the center—gleaming under the light of gold-crusted chandeliers. Around it, the lords of Velmora sat, each adorned in their robes of station, sigils stitched across their chests. Maps, scrolls, and crystal goblets lined the table, but all eyes were on the man seated at its head.
King Aldric, dressed in royal black with silver embroidery, leaned forward, studying the aged map spread before him. His brows furrowed, jaw set.
"The disturbance at the northern pass is growing bolder," Lord Caelum, one of the senior lords, spoke gravely. "Bandits, scattered loyalties… and the border villages are beginning to panic."
A younger lord added, "If left unchecked, this could become a threat to our trade routes—and worse, an invitation to Velmora's enemies."
Aldric remained silent for a moment. Then he spoke, voice calm, commanding.
"We leave in five days."
There was no argument. No murmured protest.
Only nods.
Preparations began at once.
By morning, the news had slipped into the palace like a snake beneath the door.
Each queen received the same scroll, stamped with the royal seal, informing them that His Majesty would be departing Velmora for an important matter of the kingdom.
In Queen Selene's chamber, sunlight bathed the marbled floors in gold. Her fingers crumpled the scroll before tossing it on the table.
"Father!" she called sharply.
She quickly turned to one of her servants. "Fetch my father—at once."
The maid hurried out.
Moments later, General Alric, her father and Aldric's War Commander, stepped into her chamber, already half-armored and reading another scroll.
Selene walked toward him in a silk robe, her eyes sharp. "Father, tell me about His Majesty's journey," she demanded.
General Alric sighed. "The king rides north. That's all you need to know."
"But—"
"No. My duty is to the king. Not to palace gossip."
He turned and left, cape swirling behind him.
Selene stood there, fuming. "He's never on my side." She stamped her foot.
Three days later…
The queens were expected in the royal dining hall for a shared breakfast—a custom Ava had insisted upon to strengthen "sisterhood."
Virelda arrived first, radiant as always in her deep red gown, flanked by her silent servants. She sat and began eating quietly, her silverware barely making a sound.
Then came Selene, face gleaming with self-satisfaction, her golden dress fitted tightly, hair styled high.
She saw Virelda already seated and smirked.
"How early," she murmured as she sat across from her.
Virelda didn't answer.
Moments later, Aurora entered—quiet in her ivory and pale gold gown, her hair cascading down her back like winter snow. She bowed gently to both queens.
Her eyes lingered on Selene's for a beat longer than necessary.
Then she sat beside Virelda.
Servants poured tea. Sliced fruit. Steam rose from warm porridge and honeyed bread.
For a while, they all ate in silence, the soft clink of silver against porcelain the only sound.
Until Selene broke it, her tone carefully smug.
"His Majesty told me everything about the journey," she said, delicately cutting into her food. "Every detail."
She paused for dramatic effect, glancing up to see if either queen would react.
"He tells me such things," she added lightly, "because he adores me more."
Aurora kept her head lowered, nudging at her food without appetite.
Virelda, however, set her fork down with deliberate calm. She folded her hands and regarded Selene with an expression that was almost pleasant.
"How odd," she said. "I was unaware your father had been crowned king."
Selene blinked. "What are you implying?"
Virelda tilted her head slightly. "The only way you could know those details," she said with a smile, continuing smoothly, "is if your father told you. Which he did."
Aurora's eyes flicked briefly toward Selene, then back to her cup, saying nothing—but listening.
Selene stiffened. "I merely meant—"
"Indeed," Virelda interrupted softly. "You meant to impress us."
She leaned forward just enough to make her words land. Her voice still polite, "I must say, Selene, for someone who claims His Majesty adores her, you do a remarkable job of being… completely ignored."
The words struck like frost on warm skin.
Selene's fingers tightened around her silver fork, the metal faintly groaning beneath her grip. Her lips parted, then pressed together again.
"This is beneath me," she hissed at last.
With a sharp scrape, she shoved her chair back, rose, and stormed from the table—her train snapping behind her like a challenge unanswered.
Virelda exhaled slowly once Selene was gone.
"Breakfast," she said mildly, lifting her cup again, "should not be so exhausting."
Aurora glanced up briefly, catching the moment Selene disappeared past the double doors. She didn't say a word, but inside, a small flame of satisfaction flickered.
The cruel queen had been defeated—not by her, but it didn't matter. A win was a win.
Virelda continued her meal in silence, elegantly sipping from her goblet. Not once did she acknowledge Aurora beside her.
When she was done, she stood, nodded to the servants, and swept out like a shadow.
Aurora sat quietly alone, finishing her food. But this time, she didn't feel invisible.
Back in her chamber, laughter echoed against the golden walls.
Aurora sat on the embroidered rug, her maids gathered around, retelling the entire breakfast scene.
When she reached the part about Selene storming off, the room burst into giggles.
"She actually dropped her fork?" one gasped.
"And her eyes!" said another. "She looked like she'd swallowed a bitter fig."
Aurora laughed softly, shaking her head. She didn't see them as maids anymore. They were her friends. Her people.
In a palace filled with whispers, jealousy, and power games, they were the only ones who made her feel safe.
And… they passed fruit, fanned her gently, and laughed at Selene's defeat.
-
Selene burst into her chamber, fuming. "That cow!" she yelled. "How dare she humiliate me… errrr!"
Her servants shrank into the corners, knowing better than to be seen. Selene had once thrown one into the dungeon for daring to step into view while she was upset.
Selene heaved heavily, eyes blazing. "And that stupid white-haired witch was there! I will not accept this, Virelda. I will not be defeated!"
Her eyes swelled with tears. She threw the flower pot from her table to the floor and sank into her velvet chair, arms crossed.
-
The sun had long set behind the mountains of Velmora. In the heart of the dense forest, the royal caravan had come to a halt. The golden banner of Velmora fluttered lazily under the soft wind as soldiers moved like shadows, pitching tents in swift order. Torches burned low in their holders, casting an amber glow on the faces of tired men.
The ground was cold, the air sharp — yet silence stretched across the camp like a sacred blanket. General Alric barked his final commands before assigning rotating watch. Aldric's tent, set at the center of the ring, stood tall and regal, but the man within was anything but at ease.
Inside, the King sat rigid at a carved travel desk. Scrolls lay open before him, reports from provinces and distant borders, but his eyes skimmed without seeing. The soft rustling of parchment was drowned by something louder inside — the ticking tension in his chest. He wasn't reading. He was waiting.
He knew it was coming. It always did.
Same time. Same season. Same dread.
Aldric stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the rug-covered floor. He paced, breathing steady but shallow. Then he stopped, scanning the tent as if some invisible force might reveal itself. Finally, he moved to his cot and sat, tension spiking—and the world faded.
Then the trance seized him.
Snow.
As always — snow.
Aldric found himself in a frozen forest, the sky above an endless dome of grey. Trees loomed like skeletal hands. His boots sank into thick snow, the cold biting at his legs through thin fabric. He was alone, unarmed, stripped of title, crown, and command. Only breath and fear remained.
His breath fogged the air.
A sharp creak echoed behind him, slicing through the silence. His body tensed, breath catching. Slowly, he turned — heart hammering. She was there.
The witch.
Black cloak swirling around her like smoke, eyes blood-red and glowing beneath her hood. Her lips parted, a whisper twisting from them like a spell.
"You will never escape me…"
She stepped forward, dragging the blade — that same curved dagger with glowing runes that pulsed like veins.
He ran.
Branches whipped his face. Snow tore at his legs. He didn't care. He had to run. But the trees blurred into one another, endless and cruel, until suddenly
The cliff.
Again.
Always the cliff.
He skidded to a halt at the edge, breath ragged. Before him was the great chasm — a black pit of swirling mist and wind, bottomless and eternal.
Behind him — the witch.
She stopped mere steps away, tilting her head like a beast ready to pounce. Her smile was death.
"Each year," she hissed. "Each year, you fight. And each year… you fall."
She lunged.
Aldric flinched, arms rising, but then—
A flash of white.
A blur.
The witch's shriek split the forest as she was hurled into the bottomless pit, her arms thrashing wildly. The dagger slipped from her fingers, twisting into the void below.
She fell. The mist swallowed her whole.
Aldric stared in shock, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
And there she stood.
White-haired. Blue-eyed. Small — but standing tall.
Aurora.
Her breath was heavy. Her hands steady. And her gaze fierce.
Then the trance shattered.
Aldric gasped awake, bolting upright in his cot. The flames in the corner had burned low, casting long shadows on the tent walls. Sweat clung to his skin, his tunic damp at the chest.
He was back. Breathing. Alive. But not bleeding.
He wasn't stabbed. He wasn't pushed. He didn't fall.
He stood. Because of her.
Aldric swung his legs from the cot and stood, staring into the low-burning fire, jaw clenched. His pulse thudded hard in his ears.
This had never happened before.
Every year, the dream — the trance — had ended the same: pain, blood, the sensation of falling endlessly into blackness.
But tonight…
Tonight the witch fell.
And he, who always fell, stood. All because Aurora saved him.
"Who is she?" he murmured to himself.
He paced slowly, as if walking might jog some answer free. His brows furrowed deeper the more he thought.
Why did the curse break in her presence? Why was she in his vision? Why was she the one who stopped it?
And why… why did he sleep like a child in her chamber?
He turned to his cot again, then lay back down, testing it. Maybe the curse had lifted. Maybe it was gone.
He closed his eyes.
And immediately, the wailing returned — the shrieking wind, the weight in his chest, the voice of the witch whispering his name through shadows.
His eyes flew open.
No. The curse was still there.
But not when he was with her.
He sat up, shoulders hunched, elbows on knees. The silence in his tent was deafening now.
He had never needed anyone in his life. Not for comfort. Not for rest. Not for strength.
But now… he needed answers. And they all pointed to Aurora.
The Next Morning
The sun broke gently over the hills, casting golden hues over the camp. The soldiers stirred early, horses being saddled, armor adjusted, tents dismantled with efficiency.
Aldric mounted his horse in silence, his black cloak trailing behind him. His face gave nothing away—but his mind was a storm of questions and tangled emotions.
The caravan rode on, the sound of hooves like thunder in the earth.
Yet even as Velmora came into view again, Aldric's heart stayed behind—at the cliff's edge… with her.
The girl with the white hair who defied his curse.