The Cursed Prince and His Fated Bride

I was born without a wolf—the Blackwood family's most shameful daughter. My twin sister Seraphina, however, was blessed with a rare white wolf. She'd been cradled in our parents' palms since birth. When she got hurt, I drank the potion and bled in her place. When she caused trouble, I took the punishment for her. At eighteen, she was betrothed to Prince Alaric—a man under a terrible curse. They said every full moon, he turned into a mindless monster. His first three brides had all died beneath his claws. Seraphina sobbed and refused to go. So my parents sacrificed me again. They dressed me up and sent me to the altar in her place. Even Alaric himself warned me with disgust: "Don't ever think I'll love you. That would kill you." Everyone waited for me to die on the first full moon. But when a poisoned arrow flew at Alaric's back, I still stepped in front of him. When I woke, the monster everyone feared was at my bedside—eyes bloodshot, hands still stained with the assassins' blood. He gripped my wrist, his voice hoarse: "Wren, who gave you permission to die for me?" Chapter 1 Two soldiers shoved me into a carriage and delivered me to Prince Alaric's castle. But there was no wedding waiting for me. No bells. No celebration. Just an old steward who led me into the great hall. The fire crackled in the hearth. In the corner, a high-backed chair held a man whose face was so pale it was almost translucent. That was Alaric. Once upon a time, he'd been the dream of every maiden in the kingdom. But three years ago, a witch had laid the most brutal curse upon him. Every full moon, his wolf would go feral and tear apart whoever he loved most. At first, the noble families refused to believe it. They fought to marry their daughters to him. Until his third wife died. After that, everyone saw him as a monster to be feared. Even the king had banished Alaric from the palace, exiling him to this remote castle in the northern cliffs. He twirled a goblet in his hand, his gaze cutting into me. "You're not Seraphina." He said it flatly, then slowly sniffed the air. A cold smile tugged at his lips. "There's no wolf scent on you. The Blackwoods sent a fake, didn't they?" "I..." I wanted to answer. I wanted to deny it, or maybe confess—I wasn't even sure myself. But years of being forced to swallow those potions had wrecked my throat. The words scraped out raw and broken, barely more than a whisper. He didn't wait for me to finish. He flicked his wrist, and the goblet flew toward me, striking my forehead. Warm blood ran down my face, blurring my vision. "Good. I could never love a wolf-less waste anyway." He sank back into the shadows. "Get out. Don't bleed on my floor." I clutched my bleeding forehead and stumbled backward out of the hall. The castle was vast but nearly empty. Apart from Alaric, there was only the old steward Graves, and a handful of servants the palace had banished here. The way they looked at me—it was pure contempt. And the smug delight of watching a trainwreck. "A wolf-less waste, and she thinks she can be a princess?" "I bet she doesn't last one full moon." "I bet one night!" I was put in the north tower's top room. The windows leaked cold air. The walls were peeling. Icicles hung from the cracks in the ceiling. Every day, my meal was a basket of hard black bread and a bowl of broth so thin I could see my reflection in it. I was so hungry I could barely stand. But I never complained. Here, I was lower than the lowest scullery maid. At least they got paid. I started sneaking into the kitchen at night, digging through the trash. On lucky nights, I'd find half a loaf that wasn't completely moldy. That's how I kept myself alive. Graves found me one afternoon. I was crouched behind the dried-up fountain in the garden, tearing into a frozen crust with my teeth. His old face crumpled—shock, then a deep, aching pity. He sighed and pulled a still-warm meat pie from his coat pocket, pressing it into my hands. "Poor child," he murmured. I shook my head and swallowed the last of the crust. Poor? At the Blackwood estate, I'd eaten Seraphina's leftovers my whole life. Not just that—I'd gulped down potion after potion, taking every wound meant for her. Here, it was cold. But at least no one was torturing me. From that day on, I woke before dawn and swept every floor of the castle myself. The other servants were happy to let me do their work. They just whispered and pointed behind my back. I didn't care. Work kept my mind off things. And it kept my stomach from aching so much. After that, Graves would slip me extra food whenever he could, always when no one was watching. And little by little, he told me about the prince. Alaric hadn't always been like this. He'd once been the strongest warrior among the wolf clans. He'd led armies at nineteen. At twenty-two, he'd returned victorious from the war against the vampires. Back then, when he smiled, every girl at court blushed. Then a witch appeared and laid the curse on him. He could no longer control his wolf. Could no longer love. Could no longer be loved. "The first three ladies didn't believe the rumors," Graves said quietly. "They married the prince. And they all died on the full moon." "After that, the prince changed..." Every full moon, to stop himself from shifting, Alaric had his servants bind him in silver chains. He let the silver burn into his flesh, searing his wolf-soul, rather than risk hurting anyone. "The prince doesn't hate you," Graves said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He just doesn't want to spill any more innocent blood..." I nodded. And kept every word in my heart. Chapter 2 Late autumn. I was sweeping fallen leaves in the courtyard. Alaric stood at the far end of the colonnade, a book in his hand. But his eyes weren't on the pages. They were on me. Studying. Probing. Carrying something I couldn't quite read. I lowered my gaze and swept faster. "You can take a beating, can't you?" he said suddenly. He paused. "Graves tells me you're starving. But you've never asked me for a thing. Are you afraid I'll kill you?" Afraid? The servants avoided him like the plague. But he'd given me food. A roof over my head. That was more than I'd ever had in my life. I shook my head. "I'm not afraid." He went still. He stared at me for a long, long moment. Then he looked away and walked back inside. That night, a small dish of braised venison appeared in my food basket. Days passed quietly enough. Then the full moon drew near. He couldn't sleep through the nights. His temper frayed to nothing. He smashed everything in his chamber. The servants hid in their rooms, terrified of being torn to pieces. Only I went in every single day to clean up the wreckage. He cursed me with the foulest words. He threw whatever he could grab at me. I never dodged. Never made a sound. Just cleaned in silence. And left. The night before the full moon, a blizzard descended on the castle. I huddled under my thin blanket, listening to the sounds echoing through the stone walls. At first, they were muffled—like a trapped beast's cries of agony. Then they rose into terrible, guttural howls. The clatter of silver chains. The scraping of claws against stone. The servants all cowered together in their rooms, trembling. "The prince is losing control again..." "Anyone who goes near him right now will be ripped apart." "Poor soul. He was the greatest warrior in the kingdom. Now he can't even master his own wolf..." I wrestled with myself under the covers for a long time. Graves's old leg injury had flared up with the cold. He could barely get out of bed. That afternoon, he'd grabbed my hand, his face etched with worry. "The prince is bound in silver—his wolf is growing weaker by the day..." "And with this blizzard, no one's been feeding his fire. What if he freezes?" I pulled on my worn cloak, picked up a brazier of coals, and pushed open the door to his chamber. The hinges groaned. He was curled on the floor. Silver chains cut deep into his wrists and ankles. His forehead was slick with cold sweat. His face was as white as the snow piling up outside. "Get out!" He saw me, and his eyes blazed gold-red. I ignored him. I set the brazier at his feet. Then I dragged a thick blanket over his shivering body. He shoved me away—so hard I flew backward and hit the floor. "I said get out!" he snarled. "Are you deaf?!" I picked myself up. My knees throbbed from the impact. And I pulled the blanket back over him. He went completely still. Those gold-red eyes—for the first time—held something else. Confusion. Like a beast that had been caged too long, finally meeting someone who didn't flinch from its claws. I turned to leave. He caught my wrist. His hand was cold as iron. "Why?" His voice cracked. "Aren't you afraid to die?" I looked at him. I didn't know how to answer. Because Graves said he needed someone. Because I couldn't bear to let him freeze alone in the dark. His grip on my wrist tightened. Then—outside the stained-glass window—a shadow moved. An arrow flew toward his unprotected back. This shot was meant to kill him. I didn't think. I just shoved him aside. "Watch out!" And took the arrow in my back. The pain exploded through me like lightning. My vision went black. I collapsed into his arms. Through the haze, I saw his face—stunned. Like he couldn't comprehend why I'd done it. More arrows rained down... The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness: a massive wolf-shadow, shielding me with its body. Chapter 3 I didn't die. I was told later that Alaric had let his wolf fully loose and torn every assassin in the castle to pieces. He brought back an exiled old herbalist—Agnes. Gray hair. Hands rough and calloused. The clan called her a crazy hag. She peeled open my eyelids, examined the poisoned arrow. "Wolfsbane on the tip," she muttered. "Enough poison to kill an entire pack of wolves." She studied me for a long time, like I was something that shouldn't exist. "A wolf-less waste, and you take this kind of poison—and only burn with fever for three days?" After packing my wound with a thick poultice of antidote herbs, she muttered under her breath: "Either a miracle happened... or your blood is something special." She didn't finish the thought. I didn't ask. I woke in a warm bed. Thick quilts tucked around me. Fire crackling in the hearth. Alaric sat beside me. Watching. Waiting. When my eyes opened, his lips parted—but no words came out. Graves brought a bowl of medicine. Alaric took it from him and fed me himself. The medicine was bitter. I winced. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny piece of honey candy, slipping it into my mouth. The sweetness spread across my tongue, drowning out the bitterness. That was the first time I ever saw gentleness on that face. My wound was on my back—I couldn't reach it myself to change the dressing. The servants had all fled after the assassination attempt. Graves offered to help. One look from Alaric sent him scurrying away. So Alaric did it himself. Warm water. Salve. Fresh bandages. His hands were clumsy—rough, even. Sometimes he'd pull too hard and I'd hiss in pain. He'd stop instantly, frozen, his voice tight with worry he didn't know how to hide. "Hurt you?" I always shook my head. When his fingers touched my skin, a jolt ran through me. My heart almost stopped. It was more unsettling than the wound itself. I didn't dare move. Just buried my face in the pillow. My silence seemed to ease him. After that, he seemed to stop pushing me away. When I healed, he started teaching me to read and write. At the Blackwood estate, no one had ever taught me. My grip on the pen was terrible. He didn't mind. He held my hand and guided each stroke. His palm was so warm. I started to crave that warmth. One day, he called me into his study and pressed a token into my hand. "Down the mountain, there's a smithy. The smith has a red beard. Give him this. He'll give you something in return." "Tell no one." His face was graver than I'd ever seen it. I took the token. Nodded. This was the first time he'd ever entrusted me with something that mattered. I pulled on a black cloak, raised the hood, and took the cliff path down the mountain. The village was silent at night. Empty. But I felt eyes on me from the darkness. The smithy was easy to find—the forge still glowed. The red-bearded dwarf looked at the token once. Without a word, he led me to the back. He handed me a chest. Inside: several sheets of parchment. Dwarf-crafted weapon blueprints. And military maps of the entire northern kingdom—every war-band's position, every clan's allegiance, marked in precise detail. My blood went cold. I knew what I carried on my back could start a bloodbath. On my way back, rogues burst from the forest, surrounding me. I had no wolf. No weapon. I just clutched the blueprints to my chest. The black alpha lunged at me, sinking its teeth into my wrist. Blood gushed out. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to tear out my throat. But the pain never came. I opened my eyes. The black wolf had let go. It was trembling, backing away. Then it lowered its front legs—and bowed its head to me. One by one, the other rogues followed. They dropped their hackles and knelt. All of them. At my feet. Chapter 4 I barely had time to process it before hoofbeats thundered from the distance. Alaric arrived with his guards. He saw the wolves kneeling around me—and his face went white. He dismounted in a single motion, grabbed my bleeding wrist. "Wren. Who told you that you don't have a wolf?" He bandaged my wound and took me back to the castle. Agnes examined my blood. Her face turned serious. "She doesn't lack a wolf. Her wolf-soul has been suppressed. By some kind of potion." I remembered—the potions my family had forced me to drink my whole life. Alaric didn't press further. He just told Agnes to keep the secret. Then he took me to the study, locked the blueprints in a hidden compartment, and finally—he trusted me with the truth. "These plans are a matter of life and death," he said. "Wren, you deserve to know what I've been plotting all these years." That night, he told me everything. How his mother—the first queen—had been framed for treason by Prince Cassius's family. How her entire Frostfang clan had been slaughtered. How Cassius's mother had risen to power and convinced the king to send Alaric to war against the vampires, hoping he'd die on the battlefield. How he'd returned victorious—and the queen had found a witch to lay the curse on him. Every full moon, his wolf would break free and tear apart whoever he loved most. How the old king looked the other way. He'd exiled Alaric to this remote castle, ordering him to guard the northern cliffs and nothing more. "They all think I'll die soon enough," he said flatly. "Perfect. No one watches a dead man." So for years, he'd been secretly planning. Revenge for his mother. For his clan. I listened in silence. And I understood—this man was far stronger than he looked. And far more alone. I stared at his pale profile and felt an ache in my chest—a sudden urge to reach up and smooth the crease between his brows. After that night, I became his true right hand. One look. One gesture. We understood each other without words. That winter, he told me the story of the wren. The fire was blazing in the hearth. "Do you know what your name means?" he asked. I said yes—my father had picked it at random. Seraphina, the firstborn, was named for the seraphim, the highest angels. When I was born, a little gray bird happened to be perched outside the window. So they called me Wren. "That's not right," he said. He told me an old fable. Long ago, the birds held a contest. Whoever flew the highest would be their king. The eagle soared up to the clouds, certain he'd won. He spread his wings and cried in triumph. In that very moment—a tiny wren, hidden in the eagle's feathers, sprang from his shoulder and flew even higher. The smallest bird had won the whole sky. All the birds bowed to him. He looked at me. "Wren was never a small name," he said. "It means freedom. Sky-king." "Your father threw away something he never deserved to have." After that night, my name felt heavier. Fuller. For the first time, I thought it was worth saying out loud. The full moons came and went. Before, he'd writhe in agony. He'd chain himself in silver, even as the metal wore down to bone. Now he was learning to control the beast. The first time he kept me in the room with him—nails growing into claws, roars tearing from his throat—I just placed my hand on his burning one. The roaring quieted. The second month, he took off two silver links. The third month, he made it through the entire full moon without shifting. He just sweated through his clothes, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground. Each step cost him. He never complained. I stayed by his side. Water. Towels. Holding him up when he faltered. Sometimes he'd lean his head on my shoulder, his hot breath against my ear. "Little wren... having you here... it helps." His voice was barely a whisper, light as a feather, but it stirred something deep in my chest. My heart was a mess. Word of Alaric's recovery soon reached the capital. Three days later, the Blackwood carriage pulled up outside the castle gates. My father stepped out, Seraphina at his side. The first words out of his mouth were a command: "Wren, pack your things. You're coming home." I froze. My father produced the royal marriage contract and handed it to Alaric. "We sent her here only to get your most dangerous full moons out of the way," he said smoothly. "Now that your curse is lifting, the real bride should return." Seraphina walked up to me, smiling. "Thank you for taking care of the prince for me, sister." "Now, please—give me back my place."