Chapter 17
The castle rose out of the hills like a crown of stone, its towers still proud against the gray sky, even strangled by ivy and time.
At first glance, it was beautiful. The kind of place I might have dreamed about as a child, all turrets and high walls, a storybook fortress sleeping beneath the clouds.
But as we drew nearer, beauty cracked into sorrow.
The first cottages came into view, and my breath caught.
A woman stood at her washbasin, hands plunged in water that had long since gone dry, her face tilted toward the sun that would never set for her.
A man bent forever beneath the weight of a bale of hay, his shoulders frozen, his back unbroken only by stone’s mercy.
A little boy stood mid-laugh, one hand tangled in his sister’s braid, pulling while she scowled and tried to shove him away. They were trapped that way—squabble etched into eternity.
Everywhere I looked, life was halted. Chickens mid-scratch in the dirt, a dog forever leaping at a butterfly, a blacksmith with his hammer poised above the anvil. Time had locked them all in place, a village turned into statues, each one more painful than the last.
My heart splintered. I reached blindly for Derrick’s hand, clinging to it as if his warmth could banish the chill creeping into my bones.
If it hurt me this much, seeing them for the first time, what must it have done to him? How could he have carried this grief all these years—his family, his people, his home turned to stone around him? I couldn’t comprehend half of it.
When I dared to look up at him, his jaw was set hard, his eyes fixed on the castle gates. But the muscle in his cheek twitched, and I knew the weight of it was pressing on him with every step we took.
I pressed closer, our hands locked tight, silently promising that whatever waited beyond those gates, he would not face it alone.
We passed beneath the gates, whose iron teeth yawned wide, and the air grew colder. My hand clung to Derrick’s as though it were the only warmth left.
Inside, the world was stone. Not just the walls and floors, but everything.
Fabrics that should have billowed with color—tapestries, banners, rugs—were carved in gray, threads caught mid-sway in a breeze that no longer blew.
A curtain hung stiff as rock, folds rippling where it had once danced in the wind.
Even the couches were stone, cushions flattened by the weight of bodies that would never rise again.
We moved through the silent halls, passing guards whose faces were locked in eternal solemnity. Every detail of their armor, from buckles to blade edges, was frozen into granite perfection. Their eyes were wide open, as if they still watched us.
In the throne room, it was worse.
Dozens of people stood where life had interrupted them.
A noblewoman with her hand lifted mid-gesture, mouth parted as though she had just spoken.
A pageboy forever bent at the knee, a tray of goblets balanced on his frozen arms. A courtier whose lips were curled mid-sneer, forever captured in arrogance.
A cat arched, claws stretched, leaping after a mouse caught mid-scamper across the stone tiles—both forever suspended in the chase.
It was unbearable. I wanted to weep, to scream, but no sound dared break the heavy silence. Only the echo of our steps, soft against the frozen floor, could be heard.
We climbed the grand staircase, each step heavier than the last, until the throne came into view.
At the far end of the hall, towering above us on a dais of steps, sat a man carved into stone. His presence filled the room even in stillness. Broad shoulders, proud jaw, his hair was swept back in familiar waves of power.
He looked so much like Derrick that my knees buckled. I pressed a hand to my mouth, choking back a sob. Gods, it was his father. The king. For the first time, I saw not just Derrick, but the man he came from—the man he would be.
Tears blurred my vision, and I clung harder to Derrick’s hand for another moment, then let go. My heart rebelled at the loss of his warmth, but I knew this was his moment, not mine. Whatever waited, he had to meet it alone.
He stepped forward, shoulders straight, though I saw the tremor in his hands as he drew the red, heart-shaped crystal from his satchel. The light inside pulsed, steady and strong, as if it already knew where it belonged.
I clasped my hands together, praying, though I had no right to. Words slipped into my mind, strange syllables I had never learned, spells, whispers, as though Alarion himself murmured them to me from beyond the grave. I trembled, choking them back, afraid of what they meant, and prayed harder.
Derrick raised the crystal high, then pressed it against the stone chest of the man on the throne. His father. King Roderick.
For one heartbeat, nothing happened. The silence pressed so hard it seemed to crush the air from the hall.
Then it all broke at once.
The page boy’s goblets spilled to the ground with a crash; wine and shards scattered over the tiles.
Men and women groaned, their stiff bodies trembled as stone gave way to flesh.
A dog barked hoarsely, stumbling forward before yelping in shock at the sound of its own voice.
The mouse squealed, the cat leapt, and they tumbled across the floor in a clumsy tangle, as if the world had simply continued mid-breath after a very long pause.
But my eyes were riveted on Derrick and his father.
The crystal flared with red light, then crumbled to dust in Derrick’s hand. On the throne, the King shuddered. A faint flush of color spread over his face, his hands twitched, his chest rose with the first real breath in years.
His eyes opened.
Golden brown as Derrick’s, sharp as lightning, they blinked once, twice, struggling against the weight of years of stone.
And then they fixed on his son.
“Derrick?” His voice rasped, hoarse with disuse, but it rang with the weight of command all the same.
Derrick dropped to his knees. His shoulders shook, and though he bowed his head, I saw the tears glittering at the corners of his eyes.
“Father.” The word broke from him, raw and reverent. “I’ve come home.”
The King’s stone-stiff hand lifted, trembling, and Derrick caught it in both of his. He pressed it to his brow like a knight swearing fealty, but I knew this was more than duty. This was a son returned.
Around us, the hall filled with chaos, courtiers gasped, servants clattered to the floor as they righted themselves, and voices rose in panic and astonishment. But I hardly heard any of it. My whole heart was fixed on the two of them.
King Roderick’s fingers tightened, weak but certain, over Derrick’s hand. A father’s grip, not a king’s. “My son,” he whispered, and his face softened into something no throne could ever command: love.
A sob rose in my throat, and I pressed my hand to my mouth, holding it in. Derrick had carried this grief for so long, years upon years of loneliness, wandering with only a beast’s skin and sorrow for company. And now here he knelt, whole, holding his father’s hand, his family restored.
I didn’t think I could ever comprehend the depth of his suffering, or the weight of the relief that now coursed through him. But I would stand beside him for all of it.
The King blinked hard; his fingers tightened around Derrick’s. His voice rasped as though dragged from stone. “What… happened? Did I fall asleep?”
Derrick’s mouth opened, but no words came.
The king's expression turned far away, and then I saw it, the moment a flicker of memory returned in his eyes. His brow furrowed, and shadows darkened his expression. “The wizard,” he said slowly, laced with fury. “Alarion.”
Alarm lit his face as his gaze darted over Derrick, searching. “Where is Serilda?” His eyes swept the hall, unsteady but sharp enough, until they landed on me.
He froze.
Then his gaze narrowed, and his voice hardened into steel. “Who is she?” His stare pinned me like an arrow through the chest. “And why does she bear the wizard’s eyes?”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Panic clawed up my throat. I had known it, known he would hate me, reject me, the moment he saw what I was. Alarion’s daughter. The curse’s legacy. My blood, my shame, written plain across my face.
My lips parted, but no sound came. My knees threatened to buckle. But before I could shatter, Derrick rose, his hand still gripped his father’s, his voice steady, though I felt the tremor in his words. “Father, listen to me. She is no enemy. She is no curse.”
The King’s eyes flashed dangerously. “She has his mark—”
“No,” Derrick cut in, fiercer now. “She has her mother’s courage.
Serilda’s blood runs in her as surely as Alarion’s, and it is the better part.
She saved me, Father. She freed me. Without Rose, I would still be rotting in the skin of a beast, and you would still be stone on this throne.
Whatever Alarion gave her, it is nothing compared to what she chose to be. ”
My throat burned with unshed tears. I dared not speak, dared not move, but Derrick’s words struck through the panic like sunlight through storm clouds. He wasn’t ashamed. Not of me. Not ever.
Still, the King’s stare bore into me, and his voice sounded sharp with disbelief. “Serilda? She’s… her daughter?” His hand shook as he pointed at me.
“One of them. Rose Red,” Derrick said calmly. “The other is Snow White. Serilda bore twins.”
My breath caught. My legs trembled, but when Derrick beckoned me up and closer, I forced myself forward.
Each step felt like crossing a battlefield.
I tried to smile, tried to stand tall, but inside, guilt and self-doubt waged war.
How could I belong here when half of me came from the monster who cursed them?
“You are Serilda’s daughter?” Rodrick's voice softened on my mother’s name, though the weight of it was heavy as stone.
All I could do was nod; my throat felt way too tight for words.
The King turned, his gaze falling back on Derrick. “She's a grown lady. How long was I… like this?”
Derrick’s jaw clenched. He lowered his voice, but it carried through the hall all the same. “Twenty years.”
Gasps rippled through the courtiers and servants who had managed to rise and stand. Some clutched their heads, others covered their mouths, but all were shaken. Murmurs raced through the chamber like fire through dry brush. Twenty years.
The King staggered, his face ashen, and collapsed back into his throne. His hands gripped the golden arms as though they were the only thing holding him upright. “Twenty years?” His voice cracked, and the echo bounced off vaulted ceilings. “I was stone for twenty years?”
His words rolled over the hall, silencing the whispers for a heartbeat. And then they began again, louder, bewildered, mournful. Twenty years…
I stood frozen, my hands clenched in my skirts. My heart was breaking for Derrick, for his father, for everyone who had been caught in that endless sleep. Twenty years gone—how could anyone bear it?
The King seemed to gather himself, straightening on the throne, though grief still shadowed his eyes. He fixed them on me once more, but this time they softened as they searched my features.
“Rose Red, is it?” His voice gentled, deep and resonant, no longer an accusation but a welcome. He lifted a hand. “Come here, child. Let me see the young woman who has captured my son’s heart.”
On trembling legs, I stepped closer, my heart hammering. When I reached him, he studied me long and slow, and then his face broke into something like wonder.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Now I can see it too. You have your mother’s lips. Gods, what a beauty she was.” His gaze softened further, almost wistful. “And you are too. Tell me, how is she?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I ducked my head, whispering, “She is well, sire. She lives in the forest, in a cottage; she's safe. Thanks to you.”
At that, something uncoiled in his shoulders. He let out a long breath and nodded. “Good. Good. There is much to talk over then, much to put right.” His eyes gleamed, and new strength returned to them as he straightened. “And much to celebrate.”
He clapped his hands, the sound ringing sharply through the vaulted chamber.
“Tonight, we feast!” he declared, his voice filling the hall.
“Not only for the breaking of our curse, but for all who yet live, and for my son returned. This day shall be marked for all eternity. From now until the end of days, it shall be called The Day of Waking!”
A cheer rose, ragged at first as stiff bodies remembered themselves, then swelling until the chamber shook with it. The Day of Waking! they cried, voices lifting like the first dawn after a long, dark night.
I turned to Derrick, and my hand found his. His fingers tightened around mine; his eyes burned with joy and relief. And for the first time since I had known him, I saw him not only as my bear, my love, but also as a prince, his father’s heir, standing tall in his rightful place.