They came for her on the night of her seventeenth birthday.
Elaria felt it before she heard the hooves—an ache beneath her skin, like something ancient had stirred awake. Her mother's voice trembled with fear as she whispered the words Elaria was never meant to hear.
"They've found you."
In the silence that followed, the wind howled against their cottage door. Elaria stood frozen, the birthday ring still warm on her finger—a simple silver band, carved with a crescent moon.
Her father grabbed his sword. Her mother, a bag of herbs and salt.
"Why now?" Elaria whispered.
Her mother touched her cheek. "Because the curse has bloomed."
They didn't explain. There was no time.
Flames lit the forest outside. The king's riders were close.
"You must run to the Northwood," her father said. "Find the witch of the shattered tree. She's the only one who knows what you are."
Elaria wanted to ask what that meant. What she was. But fear clogged her throat.
Her mother pressed something into her palm—a pendant, cold and black like obsidian.
"It belongs to him," she said. "And so do you."
The door burst open.
Screams. Steel. Fire.
Elaria ran.
Through the forest. Through the dark. Until her legs gave out.
When she awoke, the world was quiet.
Except for the boy standing above her—silver eyes glowing in the shadows, a cruel crown on his brow.
"You're the girl they cursed for me," he said softly.
Then he smiled.
"And I've waited a long time to find you."