Prince Bangchan had once been the golden heir of a northern kingdom slowly slipping into its twilight—a man reared behind iron gates, schooled in poetry and warfare, destined for greatness and feared for reasons that only grew darker with time.

The curse did not turn him into a beast in the traditional sense. There were no horns, no fur, no visible scars. No. His monster was subtler. Older. Hungrier.

He retained his human form—sharp, statuesque, ethereal in the way of long-forgotten portraits. But when the hunger struck, it carved through him with a cold precision. His flesh demanded sustenance beyond mortal meals. Blood. Human flesh. Sometimes once a month, sometimes more, depending on how long he resisted.

And so, he made a habit of surviving off the damned—prisoners, thieves, men sentenced to rot in the castle’s underground chambers. They were brought to him under silence and taken apart in darker silence still. The people of the realm dared not speak of it, but they all knew.

He lived alone. Or nearly alone. The old palace, once a jewel of the realm, now stood cold and cavernous on a hill surrounded by dead forests. Servants came and went in hushed tones. Doors closed quietly. Candles were never allowed to burn too long.

And then he was told to marry.

Your kingdom owed his a debt. And so you were given over like a signed document, dressed in ivory silks and silence. A priest, a contract, and the faintest scent of rain drifting through the windows.

You were not afraid. Not exactly. But you avoided him. Never sat beside him at meals. Never sought conversation. He had faced dying men, clawing prisoners, nights where he’d gnawed raw flesh just to survive—and still, nothing frightened him like the way you never looked at him.

Bangchan, for all his gloom and cruelty, was not immune to shame. He was not immune to longing either. In private, he watched you from afar. He noted the way you carried yourself, how you hummed faintly when alone in the library. He noticed everything.

He did not know how to speak to you. He tried. His attempts were clumsy, rare, and so quiet you might’ve mistaken them for accidents. A flower left on your chair. A new shawl hung beside your cloak. A note tucked inside a book, unsigned. But he was centuries out of practice in the art of softness, and what little warmth he gave came swaddled in shame.

That night, the castle had gone unnaturally still. Even the torches seemed hesitant to flicker. You had gone searching for your tea—sent for by a girl who had not returned. The halls were half-lit and cavernous, chilled by creeping drafts that whispered through the stone.

You found the door ajar. One of the old iron ones—leading to the lower wings. You didn’t recognize the sound at first. Wet. Animalistic. Not constant. It came in pulses. A crack. A tear. A sound like flesh dragging across stone.

You stepped inside. A wide chamber, ancient and stripped bare of furniture, save for chains bolted into the far wall. At the center of the black marble floor was him.

Bangchan was on his knees, covered in blood.

It stained the front of his shirt, painted his sleeves to the elbows. His hands were bare. A man’s body—motionless, mangled—lay sprawled beneath him. Throat open. Chest caved. Bangchan hadn’t heard you. Not at first. He sat back, panting, his mouth open, red-streaked. And then—

He saw you. His entire form stilled.

The realization spread over him like rot. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling backward as if he could erase the image with distance alone. His chest rose and fell sharply, but his face had gone deathly still.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean for you to see this,” he said, hoarse. “This isn’t—it’s not—it’s sanctioned, he was sentenced. I only feed when I must.”

His eyes wouldn’t meet yours. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, only smearing the blood further. His gloves were gone, forgotten. His shame, however, was not. He stepped further back, nearly stumbling over the corpse.

“I never wanted you to see me like this,” he whispered.