The weight of the curse

Lysandra fell.

There was no sky. No ground. Only a vast, endless void swallowing her whole. Her limbs felt weightless, her body drifting as if caught between dream and reality.

She tried to move tried to grab onto something, anything but there was nothing.

Then, from the abyss, came a voice.

"You do not belong here."

The words slithered around her like smoke, sinking into her bones.

Lysandra's body jerked to a stop midair.

She gasped, her lungs burning as though she'd been drowning.

And then—

She was standing.

Not on solid ground, but on nothingness. The abyss had shaped itself into a surface beneath her feet, stretching out in all directions like a glassy, empty plain. Above her, the fractured sky pulsed with shifting colors.

She wasn't alone.

A figure stood ahead, waiting.

Tall. Cloaked in robes that shimmered between gold and deep black. A hood obscured its face, but when it spoke, its voice echoed inside her skull.

"You are the cursed heir."

Lysandra swallowed, her claws flexing at her sides. "Who are you?"

The figure lifted a hand. A single golden thread unraveled from its fingertips, floating between them like a delicate string of fate.

"The one who wove your fate long before you were born."

Lysandra's heart pounded. "Are you—" She hesitated. "—the Forgotten God?"

Silence.

Then, a deep, mirthless chuckle.

"The Forgotten God does not speak to mortals."

Lysandra's chest tightened. "Then what are you?"

The figure stepped closer, and suddenly, Lysandra couldn't move.

Not because of fear. Not because of magic.

But because something deep inside her recognized this being.

The voice softened, turning almost... familiar.

"I am the memory of what was lost."

The golden thread between them pulsed once.

Lysandra's vision blurred—

—Suddenly, she wasn't in the void anymore.

She was standing in a grand, golden palace.

Lysandra gasped, stumbling back. The halls stretched endlessly, lined with towering columns and massive stained-glass windows. Light poured through them, illuminating scenes she didn't understand kings, beasts, gods.

She turned—and froze.

At the end of the hallway stood a man.

Tall, regal, his black cloak embroidered with golden constellations. A crown sat upon his dark hair, twisted with something eerie and ancient.

His eyes—gold, just like hers—pierced through her.

And for the first time, Lysandra saw his face.

The prince's face.

Except… this wasn't him.

This was someone else.

The man took a step forward. His voice, rich and deep, rang through the empty palace.

"Daughter of the Cursed Line…"

Lysandra's breath hitched.

"…You are not ready to know the truth."

The palace shattered.

Lysandra woke up gasping.

The real world snapped back around her. The scent of earth and damp leaves filled her lungs, the weight of her body pressing into the forest floor. The Wilds.

She was back.

A shadow loomed over her.

Lysandra's eyes flew open just in time to see the masked prince kneeling beside her, his silver eyes filled with something unreadable.

"You vanished," he said, his voice edged with something tight. "You were gone for hours."

Lysandra sat up, her head spinning. The memory of the golden palace, the strange figure, the man with her eyes—it all came rushing back.

Had it been a vision? A warning?

Or something worse?

She looked at the prince, her throat dry. "I saw someone."

The prince's gaze sharpened. "Who?"

Lysandra exhaled, the weight of the revelation settling over her like a heavy cloak.

"…A king."

And deep inside, she already knew the answer.

The first cursed heir.

The one who started it all.