The Cursed Union

The Kingdom of Elthra had once been a land of abundance. Rolling emerald fields stretched as far as the eye could see, kissed by sunlight that never seemed to dim, and magic that flowed through every stone and stream like a gentle whisper of life. But that was long ago.

Now, the once lush countryside was withered and broken. Fields of golden wheat had turned to ashen stubble. Rivers choked with mud snaked across cracked earth, their waters poisoned with a sickly, iridescent sheen. Even the great oak trees, which had stood as proud sentinels for centuries, bowed under the weight of disease. The sun still rose, but it was a pale imitation of itself, veiled behind a heavy, oppressive mist.

Princess Lass stood at her tower window, gazing out at the kingdom she loved. The weight of a thousand unshed tears pressed against her chest. Her hands clenched the sill as she took in the view—a view that, no matter how many times she beheld it, never failed to stir anger and sorrow in equal measure.

"Elthra is dying," she whispered to the empty room. Her voice was steady, but her heart was anything but. 

---

A soft knock at the door broke her reverie. Lass turned, releasing her grip on the windowsill. The door creaked open, revealing Ilara, her best friend and loyal maid. Ilara's fiery red hair was bound in a hasty bun, and her hazel eyes sparkled with worry.

"Your Highness," Ilara said, bowing quickly. "The council awaits you in the Great Hall."

Lass sighed, running a hand through her raven-black hair. "Do they think discussing the curse again will suddenly conjure a solution?"

Ilara's lips quirked into a wry smile. "They seem to believe that enough talking will eventually lift the curse, yes. But if you ask me, talking never fixed a broken roof."

A faint smile tugged at Lass's mouth. "No, it didn't. But it's good to know someone still has their sense of humor." She stepped forward, her golden gown whispering across the stone floor. "Come on, then. Let's see what grim news the council has for us today."

---

The Great Hall of Elthra's castle was a grand room, though the fading magic had left its mark here as well. The once-vibrant stained glass windows had dulled, and the enchanted chandeliers that should have sparkled with perpetual light now flickered with a tired, dying glow. 

The council members sat in a crescent around the King's seat, their faces etched with the strain of years of decay. As Lass entered, the room quieted, all eyes turning to her. She took her place beside her father, King Muse, whose once-strong frame seemed to sag more each day. His blue eyes, mirrors of her own, met hers with a silent apology.

"Princess Lass," spoke Lord Bryne, the eldest of the councilors. His voice was grave, deepened by the weight of decades. "A messenger has just arrived from the northern territories. His news is... troubling."

Lass's heart thumped, though her expression remained composed. "Speak."

The messenger, a young man with mud-streaked clothes and exhaustion shadowing his eyes, stepped forward. He bowed low before straightening, though it was clear he barely had the energy to do so.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice hoarse, "a magical anomaly has devastated our village. A storm of wild, untamed magic—winds of fire, torrents of poison. It came without warning. Half the village is gone, swallowed by the earth, and the rest..." He hesitated, his voice cracking. "The survivors are twisted by the magic. Some have gone mad. Others... changed."

Gasps echoed around the room. Lass's nails dug into her palms. A storm of magic, she thought. It's getting worse.

"Thank you, messenger," King Muse said, his voice rough. "You have served your village well. We will do what we can."

The messenger bowed again, his eyes filled with desperation, and then was led out by a steward.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Lass could feel it pressing on her, stifling and suffocating. Finally, she spoke. "We cannot delay any longer," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "The curse is consuming us. We must find a way to break it, whatever the cost."

Lord Bryne's eyes softened with something like pity. "Princess, the answer lies in the prophecy. But it is... not a simple matter."

Lass's jaw clenched. She knew exactly what he was referring to, and it made her stomach twist with dread. "I am aware," she replied, her tone colder than she intended. "But if this curse is to be ended, we must be willing to pay whatever price it demands."

---

Later that evening, Lass wandered through the palace gardens. What had once been a sanctuary of vibrant colors and fragrant blossoms was now a graveyard of withered petals and brittle leaves. She knelt beside a patch of dead lilies, their fragile forms crumbling at her touch.

"Sometimes, I wonder if they are lucky," she murmured, her voice thick with sorrow. "They don't feel this pain."

A soft rustle behind her made Lass rise, her hand instinctively moving to the small dagger concealed in her belt. Ilara stepped out from behind a dying rosebush, her expression sheepish.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Ilara said. "But you looked... lost."

Lass released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I suppose I am."

Ilara walked over, her boots crunching over dead leaves. "The Princess I know never stays lost for long," she said, her voice teasing but kind. "She's too stubborn for that."

Lass managed a small smile. "Stubbornness is not the same as strength, Ilara."

Ilara's eyes softened. "Perhaps not. But it's enough to get you through the hardest moments." She hesitated, then added, "You don't have to carry this alone."

Lass's gaze fell to the amulet around her neck, the one her father had given her. It glowed faintly, a reminder of magic that still clung to life, refusing to be snuffed out. "Sometimes, it feels like I do."

Before Ilara could reply, a sharp breeze rustled through the garden, carrying with it a faint, haunting melody. Lass and Ilara exchanged a look, both hearing the music—a ghostly song that seemed to rise from the heart of the land itself.

"What is that?" Ilara whispered, her voice tight with fear.

Lass's pulse quickened. "A warning," she said, though she had no idea how she knew. "Or perhaps... a call."

---

The next morning, Lass stood once more at her window, the ghostly song still echoing in her mind. Her resolve had hardened overnight, like steel being forged in fire. She knew what she had to do.

Just as she turned away, the door to her chamber burst open. Captain Rhys, the head of the palace guard, strode in, his face pale and eyes wide.

"Your Highness," he said, breathless. "The anomaly... it's moving. A wave of wild magic is heading straight for the capital."

Lass's heart stopped. The capital, where thousands of her people lived, would be decimated. She had thought the curse was a slow death, but now it seemed to be accelerating. The kingdom was running out of time.

"Gather the council," Lass commanded, her voice steady but urgent. "We must act now."

Rhys bowed and hurried away. Lass turned back to the window, her hands trembling. As the sun struggled to pierce the gloom, she knew that whatever came next would change everything.

And she feared, deep down, that this was only the beginning.