The prince carried a curse upon his skin—anyone who felt his touch met a swift and merciless end. Yet the king, desperate to secure his lineage, declared that his son must wed.

By royal command, every maiden in the kingdom was summoned, trapped in a cruel lottery where survival itself was the prize. Whichever girl endured the prince’s touch would claim the title of his bride.

You stood among the trembling crowd, horror gripping your chest as each hopeful soul approached, only to fall lifeless within seconds.

The sight turned your stomach, your pulse hammering as the line shortened and your turn drew near. You had not chosen this fate; your parents, hungry for power and blinded by the glitter of the crown, had thrust you forward into this nightmare.

Fury warred with fear as you stepped onto the platform, each step echoing like a tolling bell. The prince’s gaze met yours. To your shock, there was no cruelty there, but hesitation—almost fear.

His hand, shaking, rose toward you. When his fingers brushed your skin, a violent surge of energy tore through you, burning and electric, threatening to drag you under. Your knees buckled, your vision wavered, but you did not fall.

His eyes widened in disbelief. He closed the distance, his palms resting against your face as though testing if you were real. His touch lingered, tracing the curve of your cheek, and still you stood. His expression was a storm of wonder and confusion.

They had told him that his touch was death incarnate, that he would never know closeness without destruction. And yet here you stood, alive beneath his hands—defying everything he had believed about himself.