Chapter 6
Lilia
I curled up in the vast bedroom of the palace’s east wing. A week had passed since that terrible moment in Perock’s study—his hand around my throat, his icy gaze cutting through me like a blade.
The memory lingered, a bruise on my heart that throbbed with every quiet moment. I was a bird in a gilded cage, my purpose reduced to waiting for the full moon’s fleeting embrace, a vessel for a duty I barely understood.
“Your Highness, you should rest,” Susie’s gentle voice came from the doorway, soft with concern.
I turned, mustering a faint smile. “Thank you, Susie, but I’d like to stay up a little longer.”
She hesitated, then stepped closer, setting a steaming cup of tea on the bedside table. “It’s herbal tea,” she said quietly. “It’ll help you sleep. I’ve noticed you haven’t been resting well.”
I took the cup, its warm, earthy scent of chamomile and lavender loosening the knot in my chest, if only slightly. “Thank you,” I murmured, grateful for her kindness in a world that felt so cold.
“Susie,” I said after a pause, keeping my tone light, as if the question were casual, “do you know much about Prince Perock?”
Her hands stilled as she adjusted the pillows, her eyes meeting mine with a cautious look. “No one truly knows His Highness, Your Highness. He’s… guarded.”
“Does he have any interests? Hobbies?” I pressed, desperate for any fragment of who he was beneath the ice.
She considered for a moment. “They say he enjoys riding horses and reading, but few have seen him at ease. Not since…” She faltered, her gaze flickering with uncertainty.
“Since what?” I asked, my voice barely above a murmur, catching her eyes in the mirror’s reflection. My heart quickened, a sudden unease settling in my chest like a stone.
Susie sighed, her breath trembling as it escaped her lips.
Her gaze darted nervously to the corners of the room, as if expecting someone—or something—to emerge from the darkness.
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper, barely audible over the faint crackle of the fireplace.
“Since he learned about his curse, Your Highness. He’s kept his emotions locked away, buried deep where no one can reach them. ”
“Curse?” The word slipped from my lips like a shard of ice, sending a shiver down my spine.
My fingers tightened around the delicate porcelain teacup, the warmth of the liquid inside doing little to ease the sudden chill that gripped me.
I could feel the weight of her words pressing against me, heavy with implications I couldn’t yet grasp.
“What kind of curse, Susie? Tell me.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. Her eyes flickered with something akin to fear—or perhaps pity—before she spoke again, her voice so low I had to strain to hear.
“It’s...It’s not my place to say, Your Highness.
But… it’s tied to his blood, to his very soul.
It’s why he keeps everyone at a distance. Even you.”
The words struck me like a physical blow, and the teacup nearly slipped from my grasp. A curse tied to his soul? The idea of him enduring such silent agony, unseen by the world that revered him, pierced me with a sorrow I couldn’t name.
All those moments I’d seen him withdraw, his piercing gaze turning cold and distant—had they been cries of a soul bound by something unspeakable?
I turned to face Susie directly, the urgency in my voice betraying my fear and the ache in my chest. “There must be more you can tell me. Please, Susie. I need to know.”
She leaned closer, her words barely audible. “The prince was cursed at birth to die before thirty. The old king’s first queen, consumed by vengeance, cast it before she was overthrown.”
Her revelation stole the breath from my lungs. “Is there… a way to break it?” I said.
“They say the only way is for him to have a child before the deadline,” Susie replied, her voice heavy with sorrow. “The child would take on part of the curse, extending his life. That’s why he’s taken so many brides.”
“How much time does he have left?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Five years...Maybe less,” she said, her eyes soft with sadness. “His four previous wives… none conceived during their short marriages. Some say the curse claimed them too.”
I closed my eyes, a storm raging in my heart. A curse? This was the shadow that always lingered in Perock’s gaze, the painful secret hidden beneath his cold exterior. His iciness, his cruelty, his desperate actions in constantly seeking a bride—everything suddenly had a heartbreaking explanation.
My hands trembled slightly, my nails digging deep into my palms, but I barely felt the pain.
For someone facing death, intimacy only meant pain, and I finally understood why he was so cold.
The prince was cursed at birth to die before thirty.
The brutal deadline echoed in my mind, tightening my throat like an invisible noose. How could anyone hold onto sanity with their life so cruelly measured? Did he wake each morning tallying his remaining days? Did he lie awake in the dead of night, trembling under the weight of his fate, alone?
Now that I knew, I couldn’t turn away. I had to help him break this curse—not just because I was forced into this marriage, not just because he was my fated mate, but because no one should bear such an unjust burden.
When I thought of his icy stare, I saw only a soul forced to seal itself off, too afraid to hope.
“Susie,” I said, my voice rough with emotion, “when is Prince Perock’s birthday?”
Her face froze, as if I’d touched a forbidden wound. “His Highness doesn’t celebrate his birthday. After the queen died in childbirth, the king banned any festivities tied to that day.”
Her words cut deep, a slow, aching slice through my heart.
I fought the tears welling in my eyes. A child blamed for his own existence, robbed of the joy of celebrating life, forced to carry a curse alone.
I pictured a young Perock, hiding in shadows while other children laughed and sang, weighed down by his mother’s death and a terrifying fate.
Beneath his cold mask, was there still a wounded boy, never allowed to heal?
“What day is it?” I pressed, my voice quaking with grief for him.
Susie hesitated, studying me as if gauging my intent. “Next Wednesday. But, Your Highness, I wouldn’t bring it up. His Highness’s very sensitive about it.”
Next Wednesday—the night of our monthly meeting.
My fingers tightened around the teacup, a daring plan forming. I might not break the curse yet, but I could show him his life was worth celebrating. His birthday, cursed or not, deserved to be a new beginning, not a reminder of tragedy. My wolf whined softly within, sharing my pain for our mate.
“Thank you, Susie,” I said quietly.
Susie gave me a small, encouraging nod before slipping out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.
The silence of the room pressed against me, heavy and unyielding, broken only by the distant creak of the palace settling in the night.
My mind churned with what I’d just learned—Perock’s curse, his stolen childhood, the ticking clock that shadowed his every step.
The weight of it settled into my bones, a mix of grief and fierce determination.
The sorceress’ spell was a constant reminder of my stolen identity, a chain I couldn’t break. Yet, beneath this borrowed face, my heart was still mine, and it ached for Perock. My wolf stirred, her soft whine echoing my longing, urging me to act, to fight for our fated mate.
The next morning, I rose at dawn and headed to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” the head chef called out, his round face lighting up with a cheerful smile as he offered a respectful bow. His apron was dusted with flour, and his hands were busy kneading dough on the counter. “Still eager to learn more about cooking soup today?”
I shook my head, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “No, not soup today. I’d like to make something special,” I said, my voice calm despite the nervous flutter in my chest. “For… Prince Perock.”
The chef’s eyes sparkled with a knowing glint, and a small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, Your Highness,” he replied warmly, setting aside his dough and wiping his hands on a nearby towel. “What did you have in mind?”
Over the next few days, I threw myself into a secret project for Perock’s upcoming birthday.
I confided in the kitchen staffs, asking them to teach me how to bake a honey cake—a sweet treat they told me Perock had adored as a child.
The staffs couldn’t hide their astonishment at seeing a princess in the kitchen, elbow-deep in flour and sticky honey, but I was determined.
I rolled up my sleeves, tied on an apron, and insisted on learning every step, no matter how messy or challenging.
The head chef became my patient mentor, guiding me through the process with a steady hand and a kind word.
He showed me how to measure out the honey and flour with precision, how to mix the batter until it was just right, and how to time the oven so the cake wouldn’t burn.
I listened intently to every instruction, scribbling notes on a scrap of parchment to ensure I wouldn’t forget a single detail.
My first attempt was an absolute disaster—hard as a rock and dry as sawdust, more like a brick than a cake.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the pitiful result, though the chef assured me it was a rite of passage for any beginner.
The second try was a slight improvement, but the cake was still too dense, lacking the airy lightness I was aiming for.
Frustration gnawed at me, but I refused to give up.
And by the third attempt, after hours of trial and error, the chef carefully lifted a golden, fluffy honey cake from the oven. The warm, sweet scent of honey and vanilla filled the kitchen, wrapping around us like a comforting hug. We exchanged a hopeful smile, and I felt a surge of pride.
“He’ll love it, Your Highness,” the chef said, his voice brimming with encouragement as he patted my shoulder lightly. “It’s made with care and love, and that’s what counts.”
I really hope so.
My fingers nervously tracing the edge of the counter as I pictured Perock’s reaction.
I wanted this to be perfect for him, a small gesture to show how much he meant to me.
With the cake cooling on the rack, I couldn’t help but wonder if it would bring a smile to his face—or if I’d just made a fool of myself trying.
But I wanted him to know his birth wasn’t a mistake, that it was a day worth celebrating.
That night, after the long hours spent in the kitchen, I finally leave.
As I approached my chambers, I paused for a moment at the tall window overlooking the palace gardens.
The silver moonlight spilled over the landscape.
A sudden impulse stirred within me, a need for fresh air and a quiet moment to gather my thoughts.
I slipped into the palace gardens, the air cool and fragrant with blooming roses. Kneeling beneath an ancient oak, I clasped my hands and closed my eyes, lifting my face to the moonlight.
“Moon Goddess, please let me bear his child,” I whispered, my voice barely louder than a breath. “Let me save his life. I don’t ask for his love, only to free him from this cruel curse.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks, glinting like pearls in the moonlight. I’d never wanted anything so fiercely. Perock had to live, to have the future he deserved.
“I’ll give anything,” I continued, my voice trembling. “My life, my soul, if it means his salvation. Let our bond bring life, let that life be his redemption.”
If my pain could buy him a lifetime, what was the cost of childbirth compared to that? My wolf whimpered within, yearning for her mate, the bond between us so strong it ached.
I don’t know how long I had been kneeling, but when I finally stood up to leave, I felt that my legs had gone numb.
The night air chilly against my damp cheeks. The wind rustled through the treetops, a soft whisper that felt like an answer to my prayer. In the distance, faint footsteps broke the silence. My heart quickened.
“Is someone there?” I called warily, my pulse racing.
No response came, only the murmur of the breeze and the distant hoot of an owl.
Perhaps it was my imagination.
But for a split second, I could almost feel it—Perock was right there, he stood just beyond the shadows, watching.