Snow drifted across the gardens of Ashcroft Manor as Lady Evelyne Ashcroft stood beside the frost-covered library window.

Winter had always understood loneliness better than people.

When the first snow arrived, the world softened. Roads disappeared beneath white blankets. Rivers slowed beneath sheets of ice, and even the forests seemed to hold their breath.

Nothing was expected to bloom.

Evelyne pressed her fingertips against the cold glass and watched the snow settle over the garden paths where she had once played as a child.

She remembered those gardens differently.

In her memories, the hedges were bright with roses. Musicians performed beneath the old willow tree during summer celebrations, and guests filled the courtyard in gowns of silk and coats. The doors of Ashcroft Manor had once remained open until dawn.

Now the ballroom piano gathered dust beneath a linen covering.

The chandeliers were lit only for family dinners.

Servants lowered their voices whenever they passed the northern wing.

Ashcroft Manor had not lost its wealth. Its silver wolf crest still hung proudly above the entrance, and its knights still guarded the estate with the same loyalty they had shown for generations.

The house had lost something far more difficult to restore.

Hope.

Behind Evelyne, the fire crackled softly in the library hearth.

Its warmth did not reach her.

She caught her reflection in the glass: pale skin, violet eyes, and long silver-black hair falling loosely over the shoulders of her dark winter gown.

At twenty-four, Evelyne had become skilled at appearing composed.

She knew how to smile when people stared.

How to remain gracious when conversations stopped at her arrival.

How to pretend she did not notice mothers pulling their sons away from her at court.

The first time it happened, she had been seven.

She had attended a spring gathering with her parents, dressed in lavender silk and far too excited to sit quietly with the adults. Near the fountain, she had noticed a little girl holding a wreath of white flowers.

Evelyne had approached her.

“Would you like to play with me?”

The girl had smiled.

Before she could answer, her mother seized her wrist and pulled her back.

“Do not touch her.”

The words had been sharp enough to silence the nearby guests.

Evelyne had frozen.

The little girl looked between them. “Why?”

Her mother’s gaze moved to Evelyne’s face, then quickly away.

“She was born beneath the Crimson Eclipse.”

At seven years old, Evelyne had not understood why the moon under which she had been born made her dangerous.

She only understood that the girl was taken away.

Afterward, her father found her hiding behind the garden wall.

Lord Alistair Ashcroft had knelt in the grass despite his formal coat and held out his hand.

“You did nothing wrong,” he had told her.

Evelyne had believed him then.

It had become harder with every passing year.

A raven rested on the skeletal branch of the oldest tree in the garden.

Its black feathers shone against the snow, and its head remained turned toward the library window.

Watching her.

Evelyne frowned.

She had seen a raven in that same tree every winter for as long as she could remember. Perhaps it was not the same bird. Ravens did not live that long.

Still, there was something unsettling in the way it watched her.

She lifted one hand toward the glass.

The raven spread its wings and disappeared into the white sky.

“You are awake early again.”

Evelyne turned at the familiar voice.

Rowan Ashcroft stood in the library doorway.

At twenty-eight, her older brother had become one of Valoria’s most respected knights. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that never remained neat for long and the watchful expression of a man who trusted very little outside his own household.

He wore no armor that morning, but a sword still rested at his side.

Rowan claimed it was habit.

Evelyne knew better.

He had stopped believing Ashcroft Manor was entirely safe the day the first funeral carriage arrived.

“You say that as if I ever sleep late,” she said.

A faint smile softened his face.

“That is true. You have always been impossible.”

“Is that your polite way of calling me stubborn?”

“It is my brotherly way of calling you stubborn.”

For a moment, the room felt warmer.

With Rowan, she could almost remember the person she had been before strangers began treating her name like a warning.

He crossed the library and joined her by the window.

“The servants are preparing breakfast.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I was not hungry yesterday either.”

“That is not the defense you think it is.”

Evelyne gave him a tired look. “Have you been keeping a record?”

“I keep track of everything involving you.”

His answer came lightly, but she heard the truth beneath it.

Rowan watched everything.

The letters delivered to the manor.

The strangers who rode too slowly past their gates.

The servants who whispered when they believed no member of the family could hear.

Even now, his gaze shifted toward the corridor as a young footman passed the open doorway.

The servant looked into the library and stared a moment too long at Evelyne.

Rowan said nothing.

He merely looked at him.

The footman immediately lowered his eyes and hurried away.

Evelyne sighed. “You frightened him.”

“He will recover.”

“He is sixteen.”

“Then this is an excellent age to learn manners.”

Despite herself, she smiled.

Rowan’s expression softened, but concern remained in his eyes.

“You cannot spend your entire life worrying about me,” she said quietly.

“I can.”

The answer was immediate.

Too immediate.

Evelyne looked away.

Everyone else in Valoria saw the curse.

Rowan saw his sister.

Their parents had always done the same.

Lord Alistair Ashcroft had spent years searching ancient records for the truth behind Evelyne’s birth. The library held books purchased from distant kingdoms, fragments of forbidden religious texts, and handwritten accounts of magical events most scholars insisted had never occurred.

Many nights, Evelyne had found her father asleep at his desk, his cheek resting beside an open book and a candle burned down to its final inch.

Her mother, Lady Celeste, had taken another approach.

She did not search for magic.

She reminded Evelyne that she was loved.

She had brushed Evelyne’s hair after nightmares, sat beside her through long nights of grief, and refused every priest who suggested Evelyne should be hidden away for the kingdom’s safety.

The Ashcrofts had protected her from the world as much as they could.

But love could not silence an entire kingdom.

Valoria was a land of golden fields, ancient castles, and proud bloodlines. Its people believed ancestry shaped destiny. A noble family could survive war, scandal, and political ruin so long as its name remained honorable.

But a family touched by darkness was remembered differently.

House Ashcroft had once been known for loyalty to the crown.

Now it was known for Evelyne.

Lady Evelyne Ashcroft.

The woman born beneath a blood-red moon.

The bride whose promised husbands never reached the altar.

The Cursed Bride.

“You are thinking about them again,” Rowan said.

Evelyne did not ask who he meant.

Some griefs became so familiar that they no longer required names.

“I was thinking about how easily people believe stories,” she said.

“People believe whatever excuses them from thinking.”

She glanced at him. “That sounds like something Father would say.”

“No. Father would make it longer and include a historical example.”

A quiet laugh escaped her.

Rowan smiled at the sound, but it faded quickly.

“You did nothing to them, Evelyne.”

Her fingers tightened against the fabric of her sleeve.

“You cannot know that.”

“I know you.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is to me.”

She turned back toward the garden.

Beyond the frosted glass, the snow had begun covering the raven’s footprints on the branch.

Three men had promised to marry her.

Three men had died.

The kingdom called it proof.

Her family called it tragedy.

Evelyne no longer knew which explanation frightened her more.

“The priests said something followed me from the night I was born,” she whispered.

“The priests have said many things.”

“Three deaths are difficult to dismiss.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened.

“Tristan’s death was never properly investigated. Cedric disappeared on a road patrolled by royal soldiers, and Alaric—”

“Do not.”

The word left her more sharply than she intended.

Rowan fell silent.

Evelyne closed her eyes.

Prince Alaric’s name still opened wounds no amount of time had managed to close.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“You do not have to apologize.”

“I always do.”

“That does not mean you should.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Faster than usual.

A moment later, the library doors opened and the manor steward entered. His normally composed face had gone pale.

“My lady. Lord Rowan.”

Rowan turned immediately.

“What happened?”

“A royal envoy has arrived.”

The warmth left the room.

Through the window, Evelyne saw movement beyond the trees.

Six mounted guards rode through the gates beneath the blue-and-gold banner of Valoria. Between them traveled a black carriage bearing the royal crest.

Servants stopped working as it crossed the courtyard.

One maid dropped the folded linens she had been carrying.

The knights at the entrance straightened.

No one spoke.

Royal envoys did not come to Ashcroft Manor without warning.

Not anymore.

Rowan’s hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of his sword.

The steward noticed.

“My lord, they carry the king’s seal.”

“I can see that.”

Evelyne watched the carriage stop before the manor steps.

A man in royal uniform stepped down, holding a sealed letter in one gloved hand.

The wax was crimson.

Her stomach tightened.

“What does the king want?” she asked.

The steward hesitated. “The messenger requested to speak with Lord Alistair.”

Rowan looked toward Evelyne.

“Stay here.”

“No.”

“Evelyne.”

“If the letter concerns this family, I will hear it with the family.”

“It may not concern you.”

They both knew that was unlikely.

In recent years, almost everything involving House Ashcroft eventually concerned her.

Evelyne walked past him.

Rowan muttered something under his breath and followed.

They found their parents in the formal dining hall.

Lord Alistair stood at the head of the long table, the royal letter open in his hands. His dark hair had begun to silver at the temples, but he remained an imposing figure.

That morning, however, he seemed older.

Lady Celeste stood beside him, one hand resting against the back of a chair.

She looked toward Evelyne the moment she entered.

The sorrow in her eyes answered the question before anyone spoke.

“What does it say?” Rowan asked.

Alistair folded the letter carefully.

“The kingdom is facing difficulties.”

“Border settlements have been attacked. Trade roads in the north are no longer safe. There are reports of soldiers moving through territories that do not belong to them.”

“Whose soldiers?”

“We do not know.”

“And the crown wants House Ashcroft to provide troops?”

Alistair looked toward Evelyne.

That was enough.

Her heart began beating faster.

“What does the king want from me?”

Her father’s expression softened in a way she hated.

It was the expression people wore when they were about to hurt her and wished forgiveness before doing it.

“The king has requested your presence at the palace.”

“Why?”

Celeste moved closer. “Evelyne—”

“Why?”

No one answered immediately.

The silence stretched between them.

Rowan took one step toward their father. “What is written in that letter?”

Alistair placed it on the table.

“The king requests that we leave for the capital within three days.”

“We?”

“All of us.”

Rowan’s gaze dropped to the seal. “This is not a request.”

“No.”

“What has happened?”

Alistair looked toward the northern windows.

“The royal council believes war may be coming.”

Evelyne felt suddenly cold.

“With whom?”

“We do not yet know.”

“Then what does any of this have to do with me?”

Her father looked back at her.

“I do not know everything.”

It was not quite a lie.

But it was not the whole truth.

Evelyne had spent years surrounded by people who tried to protect her through silence. She recognized it immediately.

“You know enough to be afraid,” she said.

Celeste reached for her hand.

Evelyne allowed her mother to take it.

“The king would not call you without reason,” Celeste said.

“That is what concerns me.”

Outside, the royal horses shifted restlessly in the courtyard.

The wind struck the windows.

Somewhere within the manor, a door slammed.

Evelyne looked at the letter lying on the table.

The crimson wax seal reminded her of the moon under which she had been born.

For years, she had believed the worst thing the kingdom could do was fear her.

Now, for the first time, she wondered whether fear had changed into something more dangerous.

Need.

Far beyond Valoria’s northern mountains lay Nocturne, a kingdom untouched by sunlight.

Humans spoke its name in whispers, telling stories of black forests, blood-red rivers, and immortal creatures watching from the shadows.

Above its dark valleys stood Dravenhold, a fortress carved from black stone.

Lucien Draven sat upon an ancient throne beneath crimson flames.

He wore no crown.

He did not need one.

Three centuries of power rested in his stillness. Dark hair framed a face untouched by age, and beneath closed lids waited eyes the color of fresh blood.

A raven entered through the tower window and landed beside him, snow melting from its wings. A narrow strip of parchment was tied to its leg.

Lucien opened his eyes.

The flames trembled.

He removed the message and broke Valoria’s royal seal.

The letter contained only a few lines.

A kingdom in danger.

An alliance requested.

A noblewoman summoned.

His gaze stopped at the final name.

Lady Evelyne Ashcroft.

For the first time in more than three hundred years, something stirred within the ancient silence of Dravenhold.

Not hope.

Lucien had forgotten how to recognize it.

Something older.

Something buried.

He read the name again.

Far to the south, the woman known as the Cursed Bride stood beside her family, unaware that her future had already begun moving toward the darkness.

And in Nocturne, an immortal king who had long ago stopped believing in fate whispered her name into the empty throne room.

“Evelyne.”

Outside, the bells of Dravenhold began to ring.