The Cursed Prince and His Clairvoyant Maid

The courtyard of Blackthorn Palace smelled like wet stone and iron, like the gates had just been washed with rain. Late afternoon light fell across the tiles in thin stripes, and every stripe looked like a bar. My hands held the small ward chain as if it weighed nothing. It did not feel light.

“Madelin Crowe,” Seraphine Knot said from the steps, her voice calm as a hymn. Silver hair braided with thread charms sat tight against her skull. “Today you will stand where the law can see you. You will not speak unless spoken to.”

I bowed because that was what a servant did when fear tried to climb up my throat. “Yes, Warden.” My voice came out soft, like always. Inside, panic hit me hard and fast. It was my birthday. I was twenty-five.