The day passed in a restless blur. Servants came and went, measuring Amara for ceremonial robes, brushing fragrant oils into her hair, and adorning her wrists with carved ivory bangles that felt strangely heavy.
All the while, her mind raced. What would she say to the king? Could anything she said truly matter to a man bound by a curse?
As sunset approached, a servant appeared at her door, her gaze lowered. "His Majesty wishes to see you in the Hall of Leopards."
Amara's mouth went dry. So soon? But she stood, legs unsteady, and followed the servant through winding hallways lit by flickering oil lamps. The palace felt ancient, each carved pillar and painted tile whispering secrets of forgotten kings and silent queens.
At last, tall bronze doors swung open, revealing a vast chamber. Leopard statues crouched at every corner, their golden eyes catching the lamplight. At the far end, upon a raised dais, sat the Leopard King himself.
He wore a dark robe embroidered with gold thread in curling patterns that hinted at claws and tails. But it was his face that drew her breath away: half-hidden behind a mask of polished wood carved to resemble a leopard's features, its dark eyes narrowing to slits. Only his lower face remained visible — a strong jaw and unsmiling lips.
His gaze, though mostly concealed, felt sharp enough to pierce through her thoughts.
Amara lowered herself to one knee, her heart drumming wildly. "Your Majesty," she whispered, forcing her voice not to shake.
"Rise," his voice commanded, low and steady as distant thunder.
She obeyed, lifting her head, meeting what little she could see of his gaze. Silence stretched between them, heavy as the carved stone walls.
"You are smaller than I expected," he said at last, his tone unreadable.
"And you are quieter than I imagined," she replied before thinking.
The words hung in the air, and for a heartbeat, she feared she'd gone too far. But instead of anger, something flickered in the exposed part of his mouth — a hint of surprise, quickly hidden.
"You do not tremble as others do," he observed.
"I am afraid," she admitted softly. "But fear is not always shown by trembling."
His masked head tilted slightly, studying her. "They say you are the healer's daughter. Do you believe in the prophecy that brought you here?"
"I didn't," Amara confessed, her voice low. "But the spirits seem to care little for what I believe."
A faint exhale escaped him, almost like amusement. "Wise," he murmured.
The hall felt colder now, the torches flickering as though stirred by an unseen wind. Amara gathered her courage. "May I ask, Your Majesty… do you believe it?"
A long silence followed. His jaw tightened, and though his eyes were hidden, she felt the weight of a memory passing behind them.
"I have seen too many prophecies twist into curses," he said quietly. "Belief matters little when destiny has already chosen its path."
His words felt heavy, tinged with bitterness she could almost taste.
Amara swallowed. "Then what path do you choose?"
For the first time, his lips parted as though to answer — but the words never came. Instead, he rose, his tall frame cloaked in shadows.
"Our wedding will take place tomorrow at sunset," he declared, voice regaining its cold command. "Until then, you will remain in the palace and speak to no one of this meeting."
The formality in his tone stung, even though she barely knew him.
"As you wish, Your Majesty," she replied, lowering her head.
She turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, glancing back. He stood still on the dais, the carved leopard mask catching the lamplight. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what lay behind that mask — and whether the man there was as cold as the stories said, or simply hiding wounds too deep for anyone to see.
As the doors closed behind her, Amara's heart felt heavier than before. She had met her future husband — and found only shadows, silence, and questions that refused to let her rest.