The kingdom of Aeloria had always told the same story:

The Dark Prince was born cursed. He would bring ruin to all, and only his death could save the realm.

But what if the story was wrong?

In the ruins of an old temple, beneath the cold gaze of the moon, a girl with trembling hands reached out to the man everyone called a monster. His chains rattled, his crimson eyes burned with fury… yet beneath that fire, she saw something no one else dared to see—

**a plea for salvation.**

And so began a story the world was never meant to hear—

the story of the savior who dared to love the villain.

The winter winds of Aeloria carried stories like ghosts—whispers of a boy born with crimson eyes, cursed by the gods, destined to shatter kingdoms. Mothers hushed their children with his name, priests preached fire against his existence, and kings sharpened swords for the day his darkness would awaken.

But for Elara Veylen, the name of the Dark Prince was not a curse. It was a question.

Elara was not the kind of girl legends remembered. She was the daughter of a ruined noble house, her father executed for treason, her mother long since gone. Living quietly as a healer on the edges of the capital, she knew what it meant to be cast aside, judged for sins she did not commit. And perhaps that was why, when she heard the rumors that the Dark Prince had been captured and chained in the abandoned temple of Elaris, her heart did not recoil in fear like the rest. It beat faster—caught between terror and something dangerously close to curiosity.

The villagers whispered he was less man than beast now, his body scarred by battles, his soul drowned in blood. They said no one could approach him and live. They said his eyes—those infamous crimson eyes—could drive a person mad with a single glance.

But Elara, walking through the frostbitten forest with a lantern in hand, could not help but wonder: *What if they were wrong? What if no one had truly tried to see him… as more than a monster?*

The temple loomed before her, its stone pillars cracked, its doors half-buried under ivy and snow. She pushed them open, and the creak echoed like a scream. Inside, the air was thick with shadows, broken only by the silver of the moon filtering through shattered glass windows. And there he was.

The Dark Prince.

He was chained to the altar, shackles biting into his wrists, iron carved with ancient runes glowing faintly against his skin. His head hung low, obsidian hair falling across his face, but even in the dim light she could see the gleam of those eyes. Crimson. Burning. Watching her.

For a heartbeat, Elara froze. Every story, every warning, every nightmare whispered in her childhood pressed against her mind. She should run. She should scream. She should pray to the gods to protect her from the evil sitting before her.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she stepped forward. Her voice, though trembling, broke the silence.

“You’re… not what they say, are you?”

The chains clinked as his head lifted. His gaze caught hers, sharp as a blade, but beneath the fire was something she never expected to see. Not madness. Not hunger. Not hatred.

But loneliness.

When he spoke, his voice was rough, like stone dragged across steel.

“And what do *they* say?”

“That you’re a monster.”

A bitter laugh slipped from his lips, hollow and cold. “Then why are you here, little healer? To see the beast before it dies?”

Elara’s grip tightened on her lantern. She took another step, her pulse racing, her heart warring between fear and defiance.

“No,” she whispered. “I came… to see the man they’ve forgotten.”

For the first time, his eyes widened. Not in anger. Not in cruelty. But in surprise.

And in that fragile moment, under the broken temple’s roof, Elara realized a truth no legend had ever told:

The villain was not waiting for death.

He was waiting for a savior.

---

The silence between them was heavier than the chains that bound him.

Elara stood only a few feet away, lantern light flickering across his scarred face. The iron shackles glowed faintly with runes, their magic pulsing like veins of fire. She had seen cursed wounds before, but never bindings so intricate, so cruel. Whoever had carved those symbols meant for him to suffer, not merely to be restrained.

“You should leave,” he said at last, voice low, dangerous. “Every second you stand here tempts fate. Don’t mistake my silence for mercy.”

But Elara did not move. She noticed the tremor in his arms, the faint rasp in his breath. He was not speaking as a threat—he was warning her. Protecting her, even as his crimson eyes tried to push her away.

“You don’t want me here,” she murmured, lowering her lantern. “But if that were true, you wouldn’t have spoken at all.”

The chain rattled sharply as he jerked against it, anger sparking in his gaze. “You’re a fool.”

“Maybe,” she admitted softly. “But even fools can tell when someone is in pain.”

For a moment, his expression cracked. Just a flicker—the tightening of his jaw, the slight tremble of his lips—but she caught it. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

He leaned back against the altar, eyes narrowing. “What do you want from me?”

Elara hesitated. The truth felt fragile on her tongue. *What do I want?* She had told herself it was curiosity, the need to see whether the legends were true. But standing here, staring into those crimson eyes, she realized it was more. She wanted to understand. To see him as he was, not as the world claimed him to be.

“I want the truth,” she said finally. “Not the priests’ stories. Not the kings’ warnings. Just yours.”

The Dark Prince’s laugh was cold, but there was no joy in it. “The truth? No one wants the truth. They only want their fears confirmed.”

“Then prove them wrong.”

His gaze sharpened. He studied her, as though trying to pierce her soul. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the wind whistling through the cracks in the temple. Finally, he spoke.

“My name is Kaelith.”

Elara’s breath caught. The villagers never used his name; they called him only *the cursed one*, *the monster prince*, *the child of ruin*. Hearing it now was like finding a fragment of a forgotten song.

“Kaelith,” she repeated, as if tasting the weight of it.

His lips twitched, almost in surprise. Then his tone hardened. “If you truly want the truth, healer, then you must pay the price.”

Her brow furrowed. “What price?”

He leaned forward, chains clinking, his voice a whisper edged with steel. “A bargain. You give me something I want, and I’ll give you my story.”

Elara’s pulse quickened. She should refuse. She should turn and run back to her quiet life, away from crimson eyes and cursed chains. But instead, she asked, “And what is it that you want?”

Kaelith’s gaze burned into hers, unflinching, merciless.

“Your promise,” he said. “That you won’t abandon me. Not when the truth is uglier than the lies.”

Elara’s breath trembled. His words felt like a chain wrapping around her own heart. To stay meant risking everything—her safety, her reputation, even her soul. Yet as she looked at him, at the man the world had forsaken, she felt something undeniable rise within her.

Compassion.

“I promise,” she whispered.

The temple fell silent again, but this time it was not heavy. It was binding. A vow had been made.

Kaelith leaned back, closing his eyes briefly, as though tasting freedom for the first time in years.

“Then, Elara Veylen,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost human, “let me tell you how villains are made.”

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