The sun had already dipped westward, painting the windows gold. The shadows were long. The kind that made you think too hard about things that used to feel far away.
I sat up slowly. My body still felt small, clumsy—but my thoughts were clear. Clean. Like someone had wrung out my brain with cold water.
Everything from before came back.
The maid.The hair.
People don't just give daughters to wolves unless the wolf brings something to the table. Or has his teeth at your throat. There's more to it than meet the eye. But first, I need to know more about me.
I spent the rest of the day thinking, trying to wrap my head around it.
When Anna finally came in with dinner, she looked like someone who'd drawn the short straw.
She tried to keep her eyes on the tray, like if she didn't see me, I didn't exist.
"Roasted duck, mashed roots, bread with butter," she said, fast, almost a chant. "I'll just set it here—"
"Anna."
She froze, halfway to the table.
"We had a deal, remember?" I said, smiling lightly. "Our little secret?"
She looked at me then—just for a second. Not anger. Not annoyance. Fear. And something else… pity?
"Yes, miss. I remember."
"Then sit," I said, more gently. "And talk. About the cursed hair from legend. I think we're overdue for a story."
Anna sat, slowly. As if the chair might bite her. She wiped her palms on her apron. Nervous.
(Told like a whisper in the dark)
"She lived… two hundred years ago, give or take. A girl named Elya. Ordinary name. Very unordinary child.
She was a commoner from birth, orphan too.
She was the only human being to ever have magic in her soul. None before ,none after possessed such powers.
By the time she was nineteen, her magic wasn't a secret anymore. She could whisper to trees, calm storms, heal fevers with a touch. Everyone adored her. Called her a miracle. A gift. A goddess in a girl's skin.
She was recognised by king himself. Her popularity knew in the continent.She started wanting more. More power. More people to kneel, to sing her name. Her laughter got louder, her words stranger. She attacked the king, wanting the crown herself.
So the Church came to existness. They weren't what they are now. Back then, they were warriors, priests with silver blades.
They fought her.In the end, she fell. Screaming, laughing, crying—they couldn't tell.
Her last words? 'I curse this kingdom shall never rose to power till the king's blood flow in any ruler.'
That day her hair—golden once—turned midnight black. Like something inside her snapped.
As if curse engraved in stone, no descendants of the king could rule. Some died, some became insane and some went missing. Laws cahnged. Queen ruled till a feasible solution is found.
King's descendants gave up the right of throne and settle as Dukes now. The trusted Duke sat on throne.
Till date, no solution was found. "
"So people feared the hair," I said. "Not the power."
"Both. But mostly the girl."
I let the silence sit for a moment. It tasted heavy. Like ash in tea.
Then I asked the other thing. "Tell me the structure. This world's… people-ladder. The power order."
"Alright, here's the world, Miss Isha. From top to bottom. Like peeling a royal onion."
The Queen. Yes, Queen. Not King. The crown's passed down to the strongest heir, not necessarily the oldest or a boy. She rules the land. Some believe that many man still fears the curse.
Then comes her children:
Prince Corlan – charming, loves his wine.
Princess Mayna – sharper than her brother. Carries a sword, doesn't smile much.
both are around your age.
After them, the Dukes. Only two:
Duke Rowlen, near the capital. Dresses like a pillow, smells like perfume and debt.
Duke Thorne, up in the north. Cold mountains. Barely talks. Eyes like winter. Rumored to wrestle bears. Or be one.
Then come Marquises—like your grandfather. There's around twenty. They govern big lands. Play chess with politics.
Below them, Counts. Loads. A hundred or more. Your father's one. They run smaller regions. Usually loyal to a Marquis.
Then there's a stew of minor nobles—Viscounts, Barons, Knight-Commanders. Basically the spice rack of the upper class.
And finally… us. The working class. Farmers, builders, maids. People who actually hold the kingdom up.
"Oh—and the Church." She wrinkled her nose.
"They say they exist to keep the crown humble. But mostly they wear long robes, whisper a lot, and show up when it's convenient. Their hierarchy is… odd. Not based on birth. More on… who can chant louder or fast longer without fainting."
" Oh,also Duke Thorne has a son named Karl who turned 9 this summer. Rummoured to be a prodigy. He got the looks too."
"Karl…" I repeated. That name echoed in my skull.
It's familier.
The pieces clicked together like cold glass.
This world—it wasn't new. It was written.
A fantasy novel I'd once read halfway. I remember the name now—"The commoner who saved the Northern Duke"
Duke Thorne was the main character.
And I?
I was the cursed noble girl. A villain. The one with the bad ending.
I swallowed hard.
But I wasn't just Isha anymore.
I was someone else's plot.
And I wasn't about to follow their script.