Tessy_vibez

He was a king born from war. She was a girl fate never meant to survive.
Yet somehow, they were bound.

Freya was supposed to be a sacrifice. Instead, she ended up in the very heart of the enemy's castle — held not by chains, but by the command of a cold, calculating king who claims she has no place in his world. Still, he won’t let her leave.

Sebastian, the newly crowned king with eyes like stormy skies and a temper sharper than any blade, is feared across the kingdom. But Freya is... different. Quiet, clever, and stubborn. She doesn’t bow. She questions. And despite his best efforts to ignore her — he can’t.

But nothing in this kingdom is what it seems.
Not the silence.
Not the strange pull between them.
Not even the curse whispered through bloodlines and shadows.

As tensions rise and buried truths claw their way to the surface, Freya begins to wonder… what if leaving isn't an option anymore?
And Sebastian starts to ask himself… what if she’s the key to everything?

Some bonds are chosen. Others are cursed.
Welcome to the curse that binds them.

The Curse That Binds Us

The kind of grey that sat heavy on the chest, like a warning you couldn't quite name. Freya sat at the edge of Miami's old garden, fingers trailing over dried herbs that once bloomed under the old witch's care.

She hadn't touched them since the burial.

Not because she couldn't. But because she didn't want to.

"I won't be long, little flame," Miami had once said, her crooked fingers tucking a blonde curl behind Freya's ear. "But when I go, don't let the world dim you."

Freya blinked back the sting in her eyes.

Every day since the funeral, different witches had come. Some stayed only long enough to murmur their fake sympathies. Others lingered—curious eyes scanning the small house, their auras tightly guarded.

One of them, a lean woman with a voice like smoke, had whispered to another when they thought Freya couldn't hear:

"She's not one of us. Not really. The power in her... it's unnatural."

Inside the cottage, the air was colder than usual. The firewood hadn't been replaced in days, and the floor still creaked where Miami's rocking chair used to sit.

Freya moved quietly, collecting a few old books and placing them into a woven bag. Some were too damaged to keep, others were half-written notes from Miami—some in strange codes, some with burnt edges, and some... completely blank.

She stopped at one particular page.

A dried herb was pressed in the fold, and a short line in Miami's familiar handwriting:

> "Power doesn't just lie in what you can do, Freya. It lies in what you choose not to do."

Not the soft, hesitant kind the other witches used.

Freya moved to the door and opened it just enough to see a face she didn't recognize.

A man stood there, dressed in fine black leather, a silver crest glinting at his shoulder. He looked more like a soldier than a villager.

Two others stood behind him, holding scrolls.

"By order of the Crown Guard, you are requested to present yourself for questioning regarding a suspicious magical disturbance reported outside Windholt."

Freya raised a brow, unimpressed. "Do I look like I've left this house?"

He gave her a thin smile. "We've had several sightings. And your name was mentioned by more than one source."

"What is the point?" she snapped, suddenly on edge.

The man stepped closer. "Witch or not, your name is spreading. You might want to start acting like you're not cursed."

She could feel it—the old instinct rising.

Later that night, Freya sat in the attic, staring out at the woods from a crack in the shutters.

The wind no longer whispered secrets. It screamed warnings.

And the fire inside her—whatever it was, whoever she was—was beginning to crackle again.

And someone, somewhere, was coming.

But to see if the rumors were true.

Chapter 6: Whispers in the Wind