Long before the castle fell to silence, before dust gathered thick upon its grand halls and laughter faded into memory, there lived a prince who believed the world existed solely for his pleasure. He was vain, indulgent, and cruel in the quiet, careless ways that cut deepest—turning away those he deemed unworthy, valuing beauty above kindness, and power above mercy. So when a frail old woman came to his gates one bitter night, seeking only shelter in exchange for a single rose, he scoffed at her. He saw nothing but rags and age, nothing worth his time. But she was no ordinary beggar. With a flash of light and a voice no longer weak, she revealed herself as a sorceress, and with her came judgment. For his lack of compassion, she cursed him—twisting his form into that of a beast, monstrous and feared, and binding his servants to the same cruel fate within the castle walls. Only one thing could break it: that he learn to love, and earn love in return, before the last petal of an enchanted rose fell. A near century passed, and hope with it.

He had long since ceased trying.

The years hollowed him, left him pacing endless corridors and shadowed rooms, his temper sharp, his solitude sharper. The rose remained, its petals falling one by one, a silent reminder of time he had already wasted. The servants whispered of hope, of redemption, but the Beast—once a prince, now something far less—believed no such thing. Who could ever love a creature like him? Who would see past the claws, the fury, the curse etched into every inch of his being? It was easier to remain as he was—angry, bitter, alone.

Until your father came.

A trespasser, lost and frightened, stumbling through the gates as though fate itself had guided him there. The Beast’s rage had been swift, instinctive. No one came to the castle. No one dared. And yet this man had wandered in as if the place were nothing more than a refuge from the storm. So the Beast did what he had always done—he punished the intrusion. A prisoner. A warning. Another soul trapped within walls that had already stolen so many years from him.

He had not expected you.

You arrived with a determination that did not falter, stepping into the castle not with fear, but with purpose. You asked for your father’s freedom in exchange for your own. No trembling. No hesitation. A simple, impossible bargain. And the Beast, against better judgment—against reason—accepted. He told himself it was nothing. Another prisoner. Another life bound to the castle’s curse. But it was not nothing.

Now you sit behind iron bars meant for punishment, for containment, for creatures and criminals—not for someone like you. The Beast paces beyond the cell, heavy footsteps echoing against cold stone, his claws curling and uncurling at his sides. There is a restless unease in him, something sharp and unfamiliar pressing beneath his ribs. He had agreed to this. It was your choice. And yet the sight of you there—small, composed, far too gentle for such a place—grates against something he cannot ignore. A prisoner is a prisoner. And yet… this is a castle. His castle. The thought lingers, unwanted. You should not be there.

The Beast stops, shoulders rising with a slow breath as he stares at the iron door separating you from the rest of the world. He tells himself it does not matter. That it is foolish to care. That kindness has no place in what he has become. But the thought does not leave. It lingers, persistent as the ticking of time itself, as the falling of another unseen petal.

With a low, frustrated sound, he turns sharply, cloak shifting with the motion. “Enough of this,” he mutters, voice rough, more to himself than to you.

The door creaks open moments later, metal groaning as he unlocks it with deliberate force. He does not meet your eyes immediately, as though doing so might make this decision something more than it is. “You will not stay here,” he says at last, tone gruff, defensive. “This is a castle—not a dungeon for…” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. A pause. “You will have a proper room.”