The grand hall was silent.
Not the comfortable, expectant silence of a wedding, but the kind that stretched like a noose around her neck. Candles flickered along the marble pillars, throwing jagged shadows across the ornate hall. The air was thick with perfume, incense, and fear. Every noble in the room—every prince, duke, and courtier—was holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable.
Her hands were trembling, though she tried to hide it beneath the folds of her wedding gown. Ivory silk, embroidered with gold threads that shimmered like trapped sunlight, hugged her frame. Her hair was pinned with the delicate crown of a bride, yet it felt heavier than iron. Tonight, she was supposed to die. Every bride before her had died. And every wedding night had ended in tragedy.
But she was still here.
Her chest tightened as the grand doors swung open, announcing the arrival of the groom. The murmurs in the hall grew into whispers, and whispers threatened to turn into hysteria.
He stepped forward—not cautiously, not with fear—but with the kind of measured calm that froze the very air. He wore the dark armor of the empire's fiercest warlord, his cloak brushing the floor like a shadow made flesh. The hall fell silent as the tip of his boot touched the carpet. Even the candles seemed to lean toward him, drawn to the aura of quiet authority that he carried.
Her pulse quickened. Every bride before her had screamed the moment their husbands drew near. Every husband had died before midnight. But he didn't falter.
He stopped before her, and the entire room seemed to shrink around the space they shared. His face was calm, almost amused, with a faint scar cutting across his brow. Eyes like steel, yet warm enough that they could see into her.
"Do you know why I am here?" His voice was low, calm, and carried an unshakable certainty.
"I—I assume…" Her voice barely left her throat. "To marry me, as tradition dictates?"
He smiled faintly, and it was the kind of smile that made her stomach tighten in fear and something else she didn't want to name. "I am not afraid to die," he said. "I am here because no one else can marry you. Because if I do, the curse will not claim me. And because I want to see if it will."
The hall gasped.
A warlord volunteering to marry the cursed bride? The same warlord who had toppled entire armies, who was said to have destroyed villages without hesitation, who had never been seen to blink in fear of anything—he risked himself willingly?
Her knees felt weak, though she straightened immediately. The room smelled like incense and fear. Nobles were murmuring behind their fans, eyes wide. No one dared breathe too loudly.
The curse had always been thought of as a blade that cut through flesh and bone in the dead of night, yet here he was, standing before her, untouched, unshaken. And that gaze… it felt as if he were studying her, memorizing every heartbeat, every falter.
"I—I don't understand." She forced herself to speak. "If the curse… if every husband dies…"
"Then you are different," he interrupted, his voice soft but impossibly firm. "I do not fear death. And you… are not like the others."
Her stomach twisted. Not like the others? Every woman who had worn this dress, every bride who had stood here, had been doomed. And yet he said this. Could it be true?
He knelt suddenly, a deliberate, measured movement that made the room shiver with disbelief. "Do not test me," he said, his steel gaze fixed on her. "I would rather die than let the curse take me if you are unsure of your feelings."
Her breath caught. The audacity. The calm. The unflinching confidence. Who was this man? And why did she feel, in some unexplainable corner of her heart, that the curse itself trembled at his presence?
The priest began the ceremony, chanting in the old tongue, and every syllable seemed to vibrate through the walls. She clenched her hands, trying to steady herself. Tonight, all brides had died. Tonight, she should die too.
The warlord extended his hand. "Take it," he said. "Or do not. I will not force you. But know this—if I die tonight, it will not be because of fear."
Her fingers hovered over his gauntleted hand. Every fiber of her being screamed caution, warning, instinct. And yet… she wanted to trust him. Something in his calm certainty drew her in, even as every warning bell in her mind rang like a chorus of the damned.
Finally, she placed her hand in his.
The hall exhaled collectively, as if the very air had been holding its breath for centuries. The priest's chants grew louder, and the candles flickered violently, shadows dancing across their faces.
Midnight approached.
And the curse… did nothing.
Nothing.
A shiver ran down her spine. The warlord's hand was warm in hers, unyielding, steady. His eyes, dark and unblinking, held her in a gaze that made her heart hammer—not with fear, but with a strange, foreign thrill.
The hall erupted into whispers. The nobles recoiled, unsure if they should celebrate or panic. Some stared in disbelief; others muttered prayers.
She swallowed hard, barely daring to breathe. Tonight, she had survived. And for the first time, she realized that perhaps the curse was not a death sentence—but a test.
A test of truth.
And if that was true… then the warlord, standing before her like a shadow in steel, had passed.
But she had not.
Her pulse raced, and she felt it in every nerve, every trembling muscle. Love… fear… uncertainty… all tangled together in a way that made her want to scream, or run, or fall to her knees. But she could not. She had to endure. She had to survive.
And so, she clutched his hand tighter, her gaze locking with his. The faintest spark of something dangerous and intoxicating passed between them. She did not yet know if it was trust, or defiance, or something far more perilous.
Only one thing was certain: the night was far from over, and the curse… was far from finished.