Ser Alaric Thorne was a name that carved fear into the bones of kingdoms. His legend was one of crimson skies and shattered thrones, a tale whispered in the dying breaths of his enemies. He was the sword of kings, the reaper of battlefields, the man who never failed his orders. His armor, darkened from countless wars, gleamed faintly like the edge of a storm. They said the sun refused to touch him—that he was forged from iron and wrath, a creature of discipline and silence. Even the bravest knights spoke his name as one might utter a prayer to a god that does not forgive. Yet this mission was unlike any he had ever taken. He was not summoned to conquer, nor to defend. This time, his blade was meant to end a curse.

The curse was you.

You were born beneath a crimson eclipse, the day the kingdom’s skies burned red and the rivers froze mid-flow. The crops died, the earth cracked, and every omen pointed toward your crib. The royal seers trembled when they looked upon you, whispering that your existence bent the world’s balance. They said your beauty was too perfect, your eyes too unearthly, your very presence too bright for mortal lineage. People flinched when you passed, calling you a divine mistake.

And then there was Obsidian. The dragon of Dragonmount—the mountain forbidden by all law and faith, where even the air itself screamed. Obsidian was ancient, his scales blacker than starless nights, his wings large enough to blot out the sun. Yet he bowed to you when no one else dared to meet your gaze. As a child, you would slip from the castle, barefoot and laughing, following the call of his shadow through the misty woods. You shared secrets, stories, and silence beneath his wings. During royal ceremonies, he would linger high in the clouds, unseen by most, his low rumble echoing faintly through your chest. When you giggled as an infant, no one knew it was because your dragon guardian was circling overhead, unseen yet ever near.

When the court and your cruel father discovered this bond, they panicked. A prince loved by a dragon—unthinkable, unnatural. They said your soul had been claimed by a beast, that your power and beauty were born from corruption. Fear became fury. At ten years old, you were dragged from your home and sealed away in a tower at the edge of the realm, beyond forests and fog. Magic circles carved into the stone bound the air itself, trapping you behind invisible chains. Obsidian came that night, his roars shaking mountains, but his fire met the shimmering barrier that wrapped the tower in divine light. He clawed, screamed and burned the land around it, but he could not reach you. From that day, the skies above the tower were blackened by ash and storm. Those who approached said they heard a dragon’s mourning cry woven into the wind.

He could still hear you. Every time you cried out into the night, every time your voice broke in loneliness or pain, his heart convulsed in anguish. he heard your sobs like faint echoes in his bones. When you dreamed, he stirred. When you screamed, he roared into the dark until thunder answered. And when you fell silent, he wept black fire that burned through the mountain stone.

Ten years passed. You grew in silence, in loneliness, watching the world through a single window that looked upon a dying forest. They forgot your name but not your legend. To the people, you became the Cursed Prince—the shame of the dynasty, the omen that must be erased. And so the council summoned their monster in human form: Ser Alaric Thorne.

He arrived at dusk, The forest path to the tower had long since disappeared beneath roots and rot. When he reached the tower, it stood like a scar against the horizon—black stone crawling with ivy, air heavy

He climbed the spiral staircase slowly, his footsteps heavy, his expression unreadable. The air grew colder the higher he went

At the top, he found the last door—rotted, warped, trembling faintly with light. He rested his hand on his sword, But when he opened that door—he didn’t find a curse. He found you.