Lyra’s heart raced as the sky above the castle burned with an unnatural fire.

She stood alone in the ruins, her bare feet pressed against the cold, cracked marble floor. The smoke curled around her, thick and suffocating. She could barely see, but she could feel the heat—a weight on her chest, a pressure that pushed her down.

The walls of the throne room trembled as if alive, groaning under the strain of something ancient, something powerful. And then, out of the smoke, the shadows moved.

Figures appeared—dark, shifting shapes with glowing eyes that never blinked. They circled her, whispering her name in voices that seemed to come from everywhere, filling her mind with a constant, rhythmic chant: Lyra… Crown-bearer… Curse-breaker…

She flinched at the sound, her pulse quickening. There was no escape. No place to hide.

She spun around, searching for a way out, but the shadows kept closing in. A chill ran down her spine as a tall figure emerged from the smoke. He was clad in blackened armor, his face hidden beneath a dark helm. In his hand, he held a sword, its blade glowing with a fiery light, illuminating the darkened room.

Lyra took a step back, but her feet wouldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot.

The man raised his sword.

Before she could react, a surge of heat exploded around her. Her skin burned. The world was spinning, the sound of flames roaring in her ears. The figure advanced, his sword raised higher, and everything around her melted into blinding white light.

Lyra jolted awake, gasping for breath, her heart pounding in her chest. The room around her was quiet. The early morning light filtered through the cracks in the old shutters, casting long shadows on the floor. The air was cool, but her skin still felt hot from the remnants of the nightmare.

She wiped the sweat from her brow and sat up, rubbing her eyes. This dream—it had returned again. The same one. Each time, it felt more real. The man with the sword. The crown. The shadows that whispered her name.

Lyra glanced down at her wrist, where a faint silver crescent mark sat just above her palm. It had been there since the day she was born—a constant reminder of the curse that had bound her to a fate she had never wanted.

Her twenty-first birthday.

The mark was no ordinary birthmark. It was a symbol of the curse that would claim her life unless she could find the mythical Crown of Shadows.

She had heard the stories, the whispers in the taverns, the warnings from the old women in the village. Find the crown, and the curse would be broken. Fail, and die by sunset.

But Lyra had always believed the crown was a myth, a fairy tale told to frighten children. After all, she wasn’t royal. She wasn’t special. Just a girl trying to live a quiet life far from the dangers of royalty and magic.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Lyra?” The voice of Aster, the innkeeper’s daughter, floated through the wood. “A letter came for you. No name. No seal.”

Lyra’s stomach twisted. A letter? She wasn’t expecting anything.

She threw off her blankets and rushed to the door. Aster handed her a folded piece of parchment, the edges singed as if it had been touched by fire. Lyra’s fingers trembled as she unfolded it.

No seal. No name. Just a single sentence written in bold gold ink:

“The crown calls to its queen. The shadows are rising.”

Her pulse quickened. The letter seemed to burn in her hands, its words searing into her mind. It was no longer just a story. It was real. She wasn’t safe. And something far bigger than her was about to unfold.

Lyra read the sentence again, her hands trembling.

“The crown calls to its queen. The shadows are rising.”

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring at those words. It felt like time had paused, like the room itself was holding its breath. The parchment was still warm, pulsing faintly, as if touched by something alive—magic, or something darker.

“Aster, where did this come from?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aster lingered at the threshold, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “It was on the doorstep. I opened the door to sweep and it was just… there. No name, no rider, no seal. I thought maybe it was from your mother. Or…”

Lyra shook her head before Aster could finish. “No. Not my mother.”

Her mother was gone. Had been for years. Disappeared without a trace the day after Lyra turned sixteen—the same day her dreams of fire began. No letter. No goodbye. Just a single word carved into the edge of the wooden table in their cottage.

Run.

She still remembered the way her heart had dropped when she saw it.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Aster said gently, backing away, as if sensing the storm building behind Lyra’s calm expression.

When the door clicked shut, Lyra exhaled shakily and sat on the edge of her bed. Her fingers clutched the letter tighter, knuckles white. Outside, the village stirred to life like any other day. Children’s laughter echoed past the window. A vendor shouted about honey cakes. Everything looked normal.

But nothing felt normal.

She looked down at the silver crescent on her wrist. It glowed faintly in the morning light, like it knew something she didn’t.

“I don’t want this,” she whispered to herself. “I never asked for any of it.”

All her life, she’d lived in the shadow of a curse. The stories were whispered in corners, passed around by midwives and travelers. The girl marked by moonlight. Born cursed. Fated to fall before the sun sets on her twenty-first year.

That year was here. That day was now.

Lyra had tried to believe the curse wasn’t real. That she could live quietly in the village and let time pass like everyone else. But the letter in her hands said otherwise.

It wasn’t just a warning. It was a summons.

The question was—by who?

Her thoughts churned. Was someone watching her? Had her mother sent this letter from wherever she vanished to? Or was this the beginning of something far worse?

A chill crept down her spine. The dream from the night before returned in fragments: the burning castle, the man with the black sword, the whispers in the smoke. Lyra… Crown-bearer…

She pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes.

“I’m not a queen,” she whispered. “I’m not anything special. Just a girl trying to survive.”

But the mark on her wrist burned with truth.

The crown was real. The shadows were coming. And whether she wanted to or not, she was part of something far bigger than herself.

Lyra stood slowly, walked to the washbasin, and splashed her face with cold water. Her reflection stared back, pale and uncertain. But her eyes—those strange violet eyes she had always hated—held something she hadn’t noticed before.

Fire.

Maybe she wasn’t ready.

But ready or not, destiny was knocking.

The sun had barely crested the hills when Lyra slipped out of the inn with the letter tucked into her cloak. She didn’t know where she was going—only that she needed to move, to think, to breathe.

The village was already stirring. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the smell of fresh bread drifted through the air. Familiar faces offered gentle smiles as she passed, but Lyra barely noticed. Every step felt heavier than the last. Her thoughts were tangled, weighed down by the dream, the curse, the cryptic message, and the feeling that something—someone—was watching her.

She walked toward the edge of the forest, where the trees grew thick and wild. It was the only place left where she could feel even slightly in control. As she crossed the worn path leading into the woods, her fingers brushed the letter in her pocket for the hundredth time.

“The crown calls to its queen.”

Those words haunted her. What did they mean? Was it literal? Symbolic? A warning—or an invitation?

A branch snapped behind her.

Lyra froze.

She turned slowly. Nothing.

Just the rustling of leaves. The gentle swaying of branches.

She took a breath—and then a shadow stepped from behind a tree.

Tall. Cloaked in black. Face half-shrouded by a hood.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He said nothing. Just stood there, watching her.

“Who are you?” she demanded, taking a step back. “What do you want?”

No answer.

His presence was unsettling. Not just because he had appeared without sound—but because she felt something from him. A pressure, like gravity bending toward him. Magic.

She reached for the knife at her belt, her fingers brushing the hilt.

The man lifted his head, revealing sharp features—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, piercing storm-gray eyes. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Beautiful in a way that made her chest tighten and her instincts scream.

“You don’t belong here,” she said, forcing steel into her voice.

He tilted his head slightly, considering her. “Neither do you.”

Her blood chilled.

“I asked you a question,” she snapped.

“I’m not your enemy, Lyra.”

He knew her name.

Panic surged, but she kept her face still. “Then who are you?”

The man stepped closer. His cloak billowed like smoke behind him. “You were right to leave the village. They’ll come for you tonight.”

Her throat went dry. “Who?”

“The ones who serve the shadow. The curse isn’t waiting anymore. It’s moving.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, her voice shaking now. “Who are you?”

He hesitated, then spoke in a voice low and steady. “Prince Kael of Emberhold.”

She blinked. “You’re lying. The prince doesn’t leave the capital. He wouldn’t—”

“I wouldn’t risk everything for a myth?” he said, stepping into full view. “And yet, here I am. Because you, Lyra, are more than just cursed. You are the key to saving what’s left of the kingdom.”

She stared at him, heart thundering.

A cursed girl. A prince cloaked in shadows. And a prophecy she could no longer outrun.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered.

Kael’s eyes darkened. “To keep you alive. And to show you the truth… before the crown claims you.”