The curse had begun at his fingertips. A slow, creeping cold that settled into his bones, hardening them, turning them to something unnatural. Stone.

It had been there for years. Unstoppable. Unforgiving. Until her.

For two months, the fire she carried had kept it at bay. Two months of her warmth, unknowingly anchoring him to something he could not name.

He should not need her. He was a king, not some wretched creature clinging to light. But the first time she had pressed her palm against his chest, he had felt warmth. A warmth that had been absent for so long, he had nearly fallen to his knees.

Now, he sought it out. Now, he sought her out.

It was dangerous. Unwise. A slow, downward spiral toward something he could not control. But still, he found himself watching her.

She was in the gardens when he approached, standing amidst the dying autumn blooms. A delicate thing against the backdrop of withering petals.

She did not turn as he neared, but she knew he was there.

The wind caught strands of her hair, brushing them against her cheek. Without thought, without hesitation, his hand moved—an instinct now, a need—to tuck them behind her ear.

But the moment his fingertips skimmed her skin, the ice cracked.

His ribs ached, his breath caught. He withdrew his hand too quickly, as if scalded.

She did not notice. Or if she did, she said nothing.

She did not see the way his hands flexed when he was too far from her, the way his breaths came easier when she was near. She did not see the way he needed her touch, how the moments without it turned him to ice all over again.

The curse had not gone away. Not entirely.

He clenched his jaw, glancing down at his palm. For weeks, the stiffness in his fingers had eased, the cold retreating. But last night, as he lay alone in his chambers, he had felt the familiar ache return, creeping up his forearm. A warning.

The gods had been clear: to break the curse, he had to love her. And she had to love him in return.