DOOMED IN LOVE

Part II: The Curse & The Descent

Alina searched for him in the days that followed, but the name Andreas passed no lips. Not her maid, not her tutor, not even the palace guards could recall a man in a black cloak with sea-glass eyes. It was as though he had slipped into her world for a single night and vanished with the dawn.

But he had left her something.

Beneath her pillow—where no hand should’ve touched, save her own—lay a single pressed violet and a folded piece of parchment. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it, as if the ink itself whispered her name.

We are the last bloom of a garden turned to ash.

I will wait beneath the old chapel, three nights from now.

If you remember me, come.

No name. No signature. And yet, her heart knew exactly who it was.

That night, Alina dreamed in crimson. Flames consumed an orchard. A woman in white screamed in a field of roses, her voice strangled by sorrow. Two swords clashed under a storm-torn sky. A baby cried out from a cradle, then vanished. And always, always… a shadowed figure stood at the edge of the dream, whispering a name she could never quite catch.

Three nights later, wrapped in her maid’s cloak and silence, she slipped past her guards. Her footsteps led her toward the edge of the kingdom—the place no one dared speak of. The old chapel. A skeleton of stained glass and stone, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. Her father had sealed it years ago, claiming an “incident.” But Alina had always known better. Curses leave a taste in the air.

Inside, dust and candle smoke hung like ghosts. She found him waiting at the altar, bathed in moonlight fractured by a cracked pane of colored glass.

Andreas turned, his expression unreadable. “You came.”

“You knew I would,” she whispered.

“I needed to know if fate still listens.”

Alina stepped forward, her fingers brushing the cold stone altar. “What is this place?”

He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he lit a single candle. The flame danced violently, as if the air itself recoiled from the truth.

“This chapel,” he said at last, “is where the curse began. Your family and mine were bound by love once. Centuries ago. A union formed in secret—between my ancestor and yours. But when her father found out, he killed him. With his own hands. For blood. For pride. She leapt from the chapel tower the next day.”

Alina’s breath faltered.

“They say every hundred years,” Andreas continued, “two are born from the ashes of that betrayal. Two who find each other. And love. And die.”

She laughed—a bitter, breaking sound. “That’s a tale for frightened children.”

“And yet here we are,” he said. “Playing our part.”

From that night forward, they met in silence and shadow—beneath stars, in forgotten gardens, on rooftops where the city could not reach them. Their love bloomed not in defiance, but in inevitability. Like thunder following lightning.

Each time they parted, the world grew dimmer. Each time they met, it shivered—like the universe itself held its breath.

And then the signs began.

A mirror in her chamber shattered when Andreas whispered her name beneath his breath.

A raven flew through her window at midnight and died, untouched by blade or poison.

Her younger sister awoke screaming, claiming to have seen Alina wandering the halls in a bloodstained gown—while Alina had been asleep, dreaming of a kiss that tasted like smoke.

Still, they clung to each other like ivy to stone, knowing they could not change the ending, only hold each moment longer before it arrived.

Then came the engagement ceremony.

Lord Davian’s name was carved into goblets of silver, cold and gleaming. Nobles toasted under chandeliers. Her father, a statue in velvet, smiled a smile more stone than soul.

That night, Alina ran to Andreas, her eyes wild with salt and defiance.

“Let’s run,” she begged. “Let the curse chase us. I’d rather die with you than live half-alive in a stranger’s bed.”

He kissed her, slow and certain. “Then we run at moonrise.”