CHAPTER 7 A Ring in the Firelight

They had left the southern borders behind 2 weeks had past, swallowed by the cold breath of approaching winter. They had not crossed into the North just yet.

The great kingdom of Eirenthal sprawled before them, vast and glimmering a land known for its diamond veins, golden rivers, and rare creatures whose essence could heal wounds or poison hearts.

Mages, alchemists, and merchants alike bowed to Ethereal's wealth, but its politics were delicate and its nobles proud.

It was near dusk when Acheron raised a hand to halt their company.

"We stay the night," he ordered.

"At House Velmora. Lord Caeron owes the North more than hospitality."

A noble whose ancestors once traded with the North during the old wars.

Severin raised a brow but didn't question the command. He already knew his duke's patience for etiquette was thinner than Northern ice.

The Northern soldiers, unshaken and silent as ever, saluted and continued their journey toward the border, leaving behind only the necessary guard. They were born to march, to ride, to endure. They were not soft enough for rest. They didn't need it.

Only Evelyne dismounted carefully, her legs trembling slightly from the long ride. Acheron caught her wrist before she could stumble. She looked up at him, unsure if it was kindness or instinct. He didn't let go until she stood steady.

Lord Caeron Velmora greeted them with formality carved from marble. His keep was nestled within crystal caves and gardens filled with glowing herbs. Gold threaded his robe, and a jeweled serpent curled around his wrist.

"My lord Duke," Caeron said with a sharp bow.

"It is our honor to house the blade of the North."

His gaze slid past Evelyne as though she were a shadow. Not a word. Not a glance.

Acheron's voice cut the silence.

"This is Princess Evelyne, my betrothed. You will treat her as the future queen of Eirenthal, Show some respect"

Lord Caeron blinked slowly. The corners of his mouth twitched.

"Of course, Your Grace. My apologies... I did not recognize her."

Evelyne raised her chin. "You recognized me just fine."

A flicker of something regrets or unease passed in the lord's eyes. Still, he said nothing.

The servants bowed deeply and gestured for Evelyne to follow them inside. She moved past Acheron, speaking softly enough for only him to hear.

"Don't expect too much from a cursed princess, my lord."

He didn't answer. But his eyes followed her until the doors closed behind her.

The staff led her through crystal-lit corridors, their eyes flicking nervously to her pale face. Whispers buzzed like insects.

"That's her," someone muttered.

"The one whose husbands die." Another servant dropped a tray at the mention of her name.

Still, none dared disobey Acheron's order.

She was given the eastern chamber, carved with golden arches and warmed by a fire that smelled faintly of lilac. But the heat did little to thaw her. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, hands trembling as she untied her cloak.

Is this what I've become? she wondered. A symbol of death wrapped in silks and duty.

Meanwhile, Severin leaned against the outer wall, casually tossing a dagger between his fingers. He watched as Acheron paced the garden with Lord Caeron, the two locked in measured conversation.

"You're brooding," Severin said when the duke returned.

"I'm thinking."

"You only brood when it's about her." Acheron shot him a look.

Severin laughed. "Oh, come on. You haven't stopped watching her since the blooded garden"

Acheron didn't respond.

Severin sighed dramatically. "At least admit she's intriguing. Even with the whole cursed to kill anyone who loves her thing."

"Thers's no curse."

"No, but you did ask for her." This time, Acheron just stared.

Severin wisely backed away, still grinning. "I'll go sharpen my blade and pretend I wasn't right."

After Severin took his leave, a servant entered with wine deep red, nearly black in the firelight. Lord Caeron accepted it with graceful hands and an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

He poured two glasses at the hearth, the silence between them heavy with unspoken things. He handed a goblet to Acheron, who took it without a word.

"If I may ask something," Caeron said finally, voice polite but careful.

He watched Acheron like one might watch a blade being unsheathed.

"Why the princess?"

Acheron didn't move. His profile remained stoic, the firelight casting half his face in shadow.

Caeron continued, a little quieter now.

"I mean… we've all heard the stories. The first was found with his heart carved out. The second—hung in his chambers before sunrise. The third… same as the second" He sipped his wine.

"Even in Eirenthal, whispers travel fast. Some say she brings death to any man who touches her bed."

The room seemed to still.

Acheron said nothing.

The fire popped, embers flaring.

Then, slowly, the Grand Duke turned his head. His eyes like frozen storm light met Caeron's. A slow smile unfurled on his lips, cold and controlled.

"If you will not treat her as a princess," Acheron said, voice like a blade sliding through velvet,

"then you best learn to kneel before the next Duchess of House Vale."

The silence that followed was deafening.

The fire cracked sharply behind them, as if in approval.

Lord Caeron's confident posture faltered. He looked away first, the weight of the Grand Duke's gaze too heavy to bear.

Acheron drank from his goblet slowly, like a man who already knew how the game would end. After the servants finished tending to Evelyne's bruises, they bowed quietly and slipped from her chambers, their footsteps vanishing into the silence.

Evelyne stood still before the mirror, her reflection blurred by the dim candlelight. Her fingers hovered over the edge of the dressing table, trembling not from pain, but from the weight of a name echoing in her thoughts.

Luke.

She closed her eyes.

The memory of him his warmth, his promise, his blood on the cold marble floor haunted her still. And now, even silence wasn't silent. A whisper, soft and otherworldly, brushed past her ear.

"Evelyne…"

She turned to the balcony, her breath caught.

Outside, the Eirenthal winds howled across the palace walls.

The crow from earlier perched on the railing again, eyes glowing red in the moonlight. She stepped forward and whispered bitterly, "Then he'll die tonight too…"

Suddenly, the door crashed open.

Lord Caeron barged in, wine bottle in hand, lips curled in a cruel smirk.

"Have you no decency?" Evelyne snapped, spinning toward him. "

You dare enter a princess's chamber unannounced?"

He didn't answer. He only chuckled, swaying slightly with the weight of wine and venom.

"Ah, but your title doesn't protect you anymore, does it, Princess? Not when every man you touch ends up in a grave."

Evelyne's jaw tightened. "Leave. Now."

But he kept walking toward her, his smirk widening.

"Call off the engagement," he said, voice low and slurred.

"While you still can. That Northern bastard will die if you don't that bastard is the nations hero."

Evelyne narrowed her eyes. "I won't dignify your threats, Lord Caeron," she said, turning toward the door.

But before she could reach it, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

"If you weren't cursed," he slurred, dragging her closer,

"I would've claimed you myself. You're wasted on that Northridge dog. A beauty like you, untouchable… it's a damn shame."

He pressed his lips to her knuckles, his breath hot and heavy, inhaling her like a drunk starved of wine.

Disgust surged through her.

She tore her hand away and shoved him back with all her strength. He stumbled, but before he could speak, the crow screamed. It crashed through the balcony doors, black wings slicing through the air like a dagger. Caeron cursed, shielding his face as the bird clawed at him, pecking, shrieking.

"Get it off me!" Caeron shouted, swinging wildly at the bird.

Evelyne ran but again, Caeron blocked the door, his face scratched and bleeding, his fury unmasked.

"She-devil!" he spat.

"If I let you live, I lose the border! I lose the mines! You've cursed everything!"

She backed away, her feet meeting the edge of the balcony.

He stepped closer, unhinged.

"You must die," he growled.

"Die and take your damned curse with you!"

Evelyne stared at him calm, resolute.

"If it's death you want," she said coldly,

"then I'll give it to you."

And she stepped off the edge.

The wind roared. Her nightgown fluttered like torn silk.

A cry of crow tore from above then, arms caught her.

Strong, steady, unmistakable.

Evelyne gasped, eyes wide, as Duke Acheron descended with her from the third floor, boots meeting the ground as if she were weightless.

She clung to him in disbelief. His arms never faltered.

"You're really something," he said dryly. "Jumping from balconies now?"

Evelyne struggled to find her voice. "I didn't expect—" She stopped. "You caught me."

"I always will," he replied, glancing up to the balcony where the crow had vanished, as if it had never existed.

She looked away, but her body trembled not from the fall, but from something deeper.

"I'm not shaking because I'm afraid," she whispered.

"I'm afraid you'll be next."

Acheron's gaze sharpened. His tone softened.

"Don't throw yourself away like that, Princess. You'll hurt yourself."

He turned toward the courtyard entrance. Severin approached quietly, his expression unreadable.

"Take her to my chambers," Acheron ordered. "No one must see."

He moved to set her down.

But Evelyne tightened her hold.

"No."

He paused.

"Let them see," she said, voice quiet but unshakable. "Let them see I belong to the North now."

A beat of silence passed.

Severin arched a brow, half-amused. "Well," he murmured,

"the court will have their feast tonight."

Acheron said nothing, but his arms did not loosen.

And so, he carried her through the stone halls past nobles, past servants, past shadows whispering behind silk fans and half-shuttered doors.

But the whispers weren't for him.

"She's flaunting herself like a common harlot."

"The cursed princess… shameless."

"She'll bring ruin to the North too."

Evelyne met every gaze with a lifted chin, her face unreadable.

The palace corridors stretched before them, quiet but alive with whispers behind every closed door. Evelyne remained in Acheron's arms, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. She did not speak—but her silence was no longer helpless. It was composed. Intentional.

As they turned a corner, Acheron leaned in, his breath brushing her ear.

"I don't believe in curses," he murmured.

"This nonsense they cling to—fear dressed as prophecy. Don't let them shape your story. You said it yourself… you're Northern now."

Evelyne's fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his coat. "I know," she whispered.

"And I'm done running."

Their steps echoed into the stillness, growing softer as they neared his chamber.

Two guards stood at attention beside the tall oak doors, but Acheron gave a curt nod.

"You're dismissed."

The guards hesitated then obeyed, leaving without a word.

Inside, the room welcomed them with warmth. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft golden glow against dark stone walls lined with furs and heavy northern banners. It smelled of cedar and something sharper steel and smoke.

Acheron stepped inside and gently lowered Evelyne onto the edge of the lounge near the fire. She held herself still, hands in her lap, shoulders tense beneath the blanket of silence.

"Rest here tonight," he said quietly. "

No one will enter without my leave."

Evelyne looked up at him. Her voice was soft, but steady.

"I'm ready for what comes tomorrow."

He paused.

"This curse is a lie," he said. 

"If I can stand through tomorrow morning… you'll wear this."

He drew a ring from inside his coat—silver, obsidian, and unmistakably Northern. The crest of House Vale gleamed in the firelight, bold and unyielding.

"This isn't a proposal," he added. "It's a declaration."

Evelyne stared at the ring, heart pounding. Her fingers twitched toward it—then curled back. Not yet. But something had shifted in her gaze: the fire was returning.

And with that, he stepped into the corridor, where Severin waited—arms folded, posture relaxed but watchful.

stepping back toward the door. "Sleep while you can," he said. "Dawn will be loud."

He slipped into the hall, where Severin stood waiting, arms crossed.

"Well?" Severin asked with a knowing glance.

"She'll be fine."

"And Lord Caeron?"

Acheron allowed himself a small, cold smile.

"He won't."

Severin chuckled darkly.

"Hope the bastard said his prayers."

Acheron said nothing more.

They turned down the hall together, their boots echoing off the stone.

Back inside, Evelyne sat frozen by the fire, eyes still fixed on the ring left on the table beside her. Its surface caught the firelight like an omen half promise, half warning.

Outside, the wind howled through the high towers of the palace.

And then just before the flames dimmed a loud, frantic knock pounded on the chamber door.

Three sharp raps.

Then a fourth, slower… deliberate.

Evelyne stood.

She hadn't asked for anyone.

Her hand hovered over the ring.

A whisper soft, malevolent slithered from the shadows.

"He dies before sunrise."

Evelyne's blood turned to ice.