The black carriage came at dusk.
Drawn by silver horses and guarded by soldiers in red, it creaked to a halt before the Rosenthal estate. The sky bled with clouds, and the wind carried the scent of wilting roses. Lady Evelyne stood at the top of the marble steps, unmoving—her silhouette framed in mourning black lace.
Her fourth engagement was over.
Her fourth fiancé was dead.
"They say she touched his hand,"
whispered one of the maids.
"And by morning… his heart stopped."
Evelyne heard them. She always did.
She did not cry when they brought the news.
She only turned her head to the side, as if listening for something in the silence—
perhaps a warning. Perhaps a voice long buried beneath the thorns of her name.
The butler approached her with shaking hands. "My lady… the King has summoned you to court. Tonight."
Her gaze flickered, lashes long and dark. "Already?"
Of course he had.
The nobles were vultures. The moment her betrothed died, they began to circle again, looking for who to throw her to next. She was not a daughter—they saw her as a tool. A poisoned chess piece dressed in velvet and grief.
Evelyne descended the steps with elegance, the hem of her red gown trailing like blood across white marble. She paused by the carriage door.
Inside, a letter awaited her—sealed in black wax with the royal crest.
She opened it slowly, with gloved fingers.
You will be wed before the moon turns.
To Duke Acheron Vale, General of the North.
You will not refuse.
—By Order of His Majesty.
Her breath caught for only a second.
Acheron Vale.
The man with ice in his veins.
The ghost of the battlefield.
The one they say made a pact with Death.
"Very well," she whispered to the cold air. "Let them call me cursed again."