CHAPTER 6 The Ones Who Stayed

The morning came far too soon.

The castle was still and gray, shrouded in a silence so heavy it made even the crows forget how to scream.

Evelyne hadn't slept.

She stood barefoot beneath the old sycamore tree, where Luke's body swung gently from a low branch.

The rope creaked with every breeze. His boots shifted against the bark; head bowed unnaturally like he was simply resting.

But he wasn't.

Last night, they had stood under this very tree, laughing like they used to.

Before the world demanded she wear a crown. Before it demanded she bleed for it.

She had wanted to believe him.

That the curse wasn't real.

That loyalty could defy fate.

That love could stay.

But the morning had come and with it, heartbreak.

The sycamore tree where they had once carved their initials now bore only one thing.

Luke's lifeless body.

Hung. Swinging gently with the wind. His chest torn open, his heart gone.

Her handkerchief gripped tight in his dead hand, like a cruel tribute. A final message from fate itself.

It was the same scene. Again.

Her first husband. Her second. Her third.

Dead men. Ravens. Always ravens.

But this time, it was different.

This time, it was Luke.

Her oldest friend. The only person who saw her as more than just a cursed heir.

A broken sound escaped Evelyne's lips half sob, half scream. She clutched her chest, gasping, as if her lungs had suddenly remembered what it meant to hurt.

Behind her, the castle began to stir.

Servants hovered at her door. Whispering. Crying. Some in shock, others angry.

Even the guards, the strongest among them stood pale and furious.

"He was our best," one muttered. "Our friend."

"He died for her," another snapped, voice trembling with grief.

"Like the others."

The queen's ladies-in-waiting stood nearby, some sobbing, others glaring at Evelyne with open hate. One of them, Seraphina spoke loud enough for her to hear:

"She's cursed. She's death."

"She didn't deserve him," another whispered.

"She doesn't deserve anything."

Still, Evelyne stood frozen, as Luke's blood dripped slowly onto her nightgown and stained her bare feet. Her body shook, but she didn't fall.

The butler, Maurel, arrived with smugness clinging to his posture. His lips curled into mockery the moment he saw her.

"She hasn't moved since dawn," a maid whispered.

"Don't bother," Maurel said sharply. "Let the North deal with their problem."

The maids flinched.

"No one is to touch the cursed princess," he continued.

"She belongs to them now."

They all stepped back.

Even the bravest of them. Too afraid. Too disgusted. Too broken.

And still, Evelyne stood there, hearing none of them only the voice of her father in her head

"Everyone who loves you dies. That is your curse, Evelyne."

It cut deeper than the slap he once gave her. Deeper than the wine he flung in her face. Deeper than the silence after her mother's funeral.

She clenched her fists.

Then let no one love me ever again.

A trumpet blared beyond the gates.

"The Hand of Duke Vale—Lord Severin!" a herald announced.

The castle froze.

Severin stepped through the courtyard, his midnight-blue cloak trailing behind him, flanked by Northern guards in silver and charcoal armor.

His eyes scanned the chaos with the disinterest of a man already bored.

He smiled sharp as a blade and turned his gaze to Maurel.

"A shame," he said dryly,

"how the mighty tremble behind silk curtains and gossip like fishwives."

Gasps rang out.

He looked to the guards, then to the servants, the finally to the balcony where the king stood watching in silence.

"Oh, don't worry, Your Majesty," Severin said, voice like cold iron.

"If it's war you want, Vale would be honored to send one."

Maurel's face twisted in fury. "How dare—"

Severin silenced him with a look. Just a look.

Then he turned toward Evelyne.

She stood like a ghost in the castle Garden blood on her gown, sorrow in her eyes, and Luke's memory clinging to her skin.

Her voice, when it came, was hoarse but clear.

"I hear the North is at war with the East," she said.

"Are you ready to show your commander the Grand Duke of Vale this?"

She stepped aside.

Let Severin see Luke.

Severin's eyes flicked to the body. His smile faltered.

Then he bowed low.

And offered his hand.

"Don't worry, Princess," he said softly. "You're not alone in this war."

Gasps echoed. Some stepped back in fear. Others in outrage.

He took her hand in his, steady and sure.

Evelyne lifted her chin.

"I am Princess Evelyne Rosenthal of house Eirenthal " she said coldly, voice cutting through the whispers.

"Thorn Princess of the North."

Severin flicked his fingers.

Two Northern guards moved swiftly, cutting down Luke's body with care and reverence. They carried him to the roots of the sycamore tree and began digging.

"He'll be buried where he belongs," Severin said.

"Where he can rest."

Evelyne didn't move.

She didn't blink.

She stood as blood pooled at her feet and the wind whipped through her hair.

Then came Seraphina's voice sharp and mocking.

"She brings death to everything she touches."

"Curse-born," one of her ladies hissed.

"Even her tears are poison."

But before Evelyne could reply, a great horn sounded from the gates.

The earth trembled.

Massive soldiers in black and silver armor marched through the entrance, bearing the standard of Vale: a silver wolf under a stormed moon.

At their center rode a man cloaked in shadow and fury, his presence too heavy for the air around him.

The guards shouted:

"The Grand Duke Acheron Vale!"

The king gripped the balcony railing above, eyes wide with disbelief.

And Seraphina paled.

Evelyne's lips curled just slightly.

The North had arrived.

The cold swept in with them not from the air, but from presence alone.

A silence fell over the courtyard like frost, thick and unmoving.

Soldiers stood rigid. Maids dared not whisper. Even the ravens overhead circled lower, as though waiting for something or someone to die.

Severin dismounted first, his dark armor catching what little light the overcast sky offered.

He scanned the courtyard with casual disdain, then smirked as his eyes landed on the king's platform.

He strode across the stone with sharp, deliberate steps and bowed shallowly before the throne's shadow.

"Your Majesty," Severin said, voice like cold iron.

"The North sends you its regards and its wrath."

Then he turned, walking back to the armored procession

.

The crowd watched breathlessly as the next rider dismounted.

The man who removed his helmet was not what they expected.

He was too young.

Too calm.

Too terrifying.

Duke Acheron Vale, the Warden of the Frozen Pass, bore no sigils, no excess ornaments.

Only the burnished steel of a man who needed no decoration. His hair, jet-black, was tousled from the helm, and his eyes storm-gray and unreadable swept the court like a blade.

No one spoke.

No one breathed.

Except Evelyne.

She didn't look away.

Her fingers gripped her gown, blood long dried at the hem. Her heart stuttered as she saw him. And now here he was.

Acheron tilted his head, his gaze locking with hers.

"I didn't expect the Princess of Eirenthal to look like this," he said aloud, voice unimpressed but curious.

A scoff broke the silence Seraphina, clinging to her composure like a veil. She stepped forward with a practiced smile, one hand resting near her corset as she dipped into a delicate curtsy.

"She's dangerous, your Grace," she said with syrupy sweetness.

"You must be cautious. The princess is clever… and more than a little cursed. I would know—I've had to deal with her little games since marrying into the royal house."

Acheron didn't reply.

He didn't even blink.

His eyes turned toward her like a sword unsheathed. And Seraphina paled.

One look.

One look was all it took to turn her bones to ash.

"Who is she?" Acheron asked Severin without looking away.

Severin chuckled under his breath.

"The king's second wife," he replied with amusement.

"Queen Seraphina of Eirenthal."

Acheron arched a single brow. "They allow vermin to wear crowns here?"

Gasps echoed through the courtyard.

Some nobles turned away, others bowed their heads in nervous silence. Seraphina stood trembling, lips parted but no words coming.

No one spoke.

No one dared.

Acheron turned back to Evelyne, the only one who hadn't flinched.

Then, without a word to the royal court, he raised a hand.

"Prepare to leave," he said to his men.

"We leave. Immediately. I have no desire to entertain Eirenthal's rotting court."

"But—" a courtier began.

Severin raised a gloved hand, silencing him with nothing more than a glance.

Maurel, standing at the head of the king's advisors, stepped forward, face tight with offense.

"You may be in our kingdom, Your Grace," Maurel said sharply,

"but you will obey our king's summons. This is a sovereign land, not some frozen pass where men do as they please."

Acheron didn't blink.

He turned his head slightly.

"Severin," he said calmly, "kill him."

The command hung in the air, still and deadly.

Without hesitation, Severin stepped forward, unsheathing his sword with a hiss. Maurel stumbled backward, eyes wide in disbelief.

"No—wait—!"

But Evelyne stepped between them.

"No!" Her voice rang through the courtyard, clear and sharp.

"Don't shed blood in this place. Not here."

Severin paused.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then he lowered the blade, ever so slightly, and smiled at Maurel with cold contempt.

"You're lucky she grew up here," Severin whispered.

"Not me."

Maurel collapsed backward in relief, breathless and shaking.

The tension shattered like glass as footsteps echoed from the grand hall.

A hush fell as the guards raised their spears and the nobles knelt.

The king had arrived.

Draped in dark velvet and shadowed by power, the King of Eirenthal descended the marble steps.

The people parted like waves before him. He moved slowly, deliberately, the weight of his crown etched into the lines of his face.

But it was not majesty that filled the air.

It was venom.

His eyes, sharp and cruel, went first to Evelyne—his daughter, his scapegoat—and then to Acheron Vale, the man who had dared to enter his kingdom with steel and defiance.

He stopped just a few paces away.

And he smiled.

A slow, venomous curl of the lips.

"Well," the king said, voice low and mocking.

"The Duke of the North honors us with his presence. I was beginning to think you were a myth. Like dragons. Or curses."

Acheron didn't bow.

Didn't kneel.

Didn't smile.

He stepped forward instead, standing shoulder to shoulder with Evelyne.

And said flatly,

"I don't bow to cowards."

Gasps again.

Someone dropped a goblet. A woman fainted.

The king's smile cracked.

"You enter my kingdom without respect," the king snarled,

"and bring a blade to my court."

"You have no court," Acheron said. "

Only leeches feeding on a dying throne."

The king raised a hand to signal the guards.

But Evelyne stepped forward, one step ahead of them both.

"Enough," she said, her voice quiet, but sharp as frost.

Everyone turned to her.

The blood on her gown. The grief in her eyes. The raw fire that was no longer just sadness it was purpose.

"I will go with the North," she said, not looking at her father.

The king's face twisted in triumph.

But Acheron turned to her slowly.

"No," he said.

"You will come to the North, but not by his command. Only by your own."

Evelyne raised her chin, meeting Acheron's gaze.

"I choose to leave," she whispered.

"Because there is nothing left for me here."

The king stepped forward, as if to grab her.

But Acheron was already in front of her.

"No one touch her," he warned,

"you'll lose your hand."

The king stopped.

Silence, again.

The crows screamed above the castle walls.

And the Thorn Princess walked away, not as a victim.

But as something else.

Something new.

Something the kingdom of Eirenthal had long tried to bury.

The nobles whispered, their voices like snakes slithering through the cold air of the court.

"The cursed princess."

"She's running with the North."

"Does she think she'll survive them?"

The King's face twisted with fury, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his throne.

Maurel, his most trusted hand, stepped forward shoulders squared with arrogance, eyes burning with something darker than loyalty.

He grabbed Evelyne's arm with brutal force, pulling her close enough that his foul breath touched her cheek.

"You think the North will save you?" he sneered.

"You'll be a widow before sunrise. The Duke will die after your wedding night, just like the rest. Maybe that's all you're good for, Princess killing the men who dare to touch you."

Evelyne didn't flinch.

But Acheron moved.

Without a word, without a breath wasted—his blade sang through the air. A single, elegant slice.

Blood splattered the cold stone floor.

Maurel screamed. Dropped to his knees. His hand still gripping Evelyne's arm now lay severed on the ground.

He didn't wait for permission. He stepped forward, wrapped an arm around Evelyne's waist, and lifted her onto his horse like she weighed nothing at all.

Evelyne didn't resist. But she didn't look away either.

She stared down at Maurel, at the man who had mocked her pain, her curse, her name. His screams rang in her ears, but her face remained unreadable.

No tears now.

Only silence.

Then she turned her gaze to her father—still seated, still silent, fury trapped behind the mask of a powerless king.

Acheron raised his sword.

"Northmen," he called. "We ride. Now."

And they did.

The gates burst open. Hooves thundered against the earth. The red banner of House Vale rose against the gray sky as the North swept through the southern capital like a storm come to claim what the South had tried to break.

Evelyne didn't look back.

But as the wind pulled at her bloodstained gown and the castle shrank behind her, she whispered beneath her breath:

"Let them call me cursed. I'll show them what it means to be chosen."