Rhys didn't sleep that night either.
Instead, at dawn, he left his room and began exploring the palace systematically.
If he only had thirty days, he needed to learn everything he could about this place, about Valerian, about the curse.
The library was on the ground floor, west wing. The doors were heavy oak, carved with scenes of scholars and books. They opened with a groan that echoed through the empty halls.
The room was massive. Three stories of bookshelves connected by wrought-iron staircases and catwalks. Thousands of books, many bound in leather so old it was crumbling. Dust motes danced in the morning light filtering through tall windows.
And in the center of the room, a reading table. On it: a stack of books, clearly set out deliberately.
Rhys approached cautiously.
The top book was a journal, leather-bound, embossed with gold: Prince Valerian Edmund Ashbourne - Personal Diary, 1720-1723
"You left this for me," Rhys said aloud.
No answer. But he felt Pryce's presence, watching from somewhere unseen.
Rhys sat down and opened the journal.
The handwriting was elegant, looping—the penmanship of someone educated in royal courts.
June 15th, 1720
I met her today. The girl who will either save me or destroy me—I cannot yet tell which. Her name is Elara Thorn, and she smells of wildflowers and sunshine. Father presented three princesses at breakfast, each more tedious than the last. I escaped to the village and found something far more precious than any crown: a girl who laughed at me.
I bought every flower she had just to hear her speak. Her voice is like music. I'm already lost.
Rhys turned pages, skimming through entries that documented a genuine courtship. Valerian describing Elara's laugh, her kindness to strangers, the way she argued with him about poetry. There was tenderness here. Real affection.
October 3rd, 1720
I painted her today. She sat in the garden, weaving flower crowns, and I tried to capture the light in her hair. She teased me for getting the nose wrong. I love her. God help me, I love her more than the throne, more than my own life. I will find a way to marry her, consequences be damned.
Rhys felt his chest tighten. This wasn't the monster he'd imagined. This was a young man genuinely in love.
He flipped forward. The entries grew more desperate.
March 12th, 1722
Father knows. He threatened to have Elara arrested for witchcraft unless I agree to marry Princess Luna. I cannot let her die. I must end this, even if it destroys me. Tomorrow, I will break her heart to save her life.
March 13th, 1722
I told her I never loved her. That she was just amusement. The look on her face—I will never forget it. Like I'd killed her while she still breathed. But she's safe now. She has to be safe. That's all that matters.
Then, weeks of blank pages.
April 9th, 1722
Father told me where to find her. Said she'd moved on quickly, found comfort with a merchant. Part of me didn't believe him. But when I opened that door and saw—
I can't write it. Can't describe the rage. The betrayal. How could she? After everything, how could she?
April 10th, 1722
I had her arrested. Charged with prostitution and conspiracy. Father was pleased. Luna looked horrified but said nothing. Cassian—Luna's brother—keeps requesting audience with me. I refuse to see him. What could he possibly say that would matter?
April 11th, 1722
I visited her cell tonight. She won't speak to me. Just stares at the wall. I screamed at her for an hour. She never responded. This silence is worse than any confession.
The entries became darker. More violent. Rhys felt sick reading them.
April 20th, 1722
I took her tonight. She didn't fight. Didn't cry. Just laid there like a corpse. Why won't she fight me? Why won't she defend herself? If she would just EXPLAIN—
April 27th, 1722
Cassian barged into the throne room today with "evidence." Claims Elara was drugged, set up by Father. I threw him out. He's lying. He wants her for himself. They're all trying to steal her from me.
The final entry made Rhys's blood run cold.
May 1st, 1723
She's dead. Hung herself in the cell. Father's guards found her this morning. I held her body and I couldn't—I can't—
This is her final betrayal. Choosing death over me. Proving she never loved me at all.
But she's mine. Even in death, she's mine. I swear it. On my blood, on my soul—she will NEVER belong to anyone else. Not Cassian. Not death itself. MINE. Forever.
The handwriting had deteriorated into angry slashes by the end.
Rhys closed the journal, hands shaking. This was the moment. The curse. Born from grief and rage and a refusal to accept the truth.
"You see now," Pryce's voice came from behind him. "I'm not lying about what I felt. What I still feel."
Rhys didn't turn around. "You destroyed an innocent girl because you couldn't handle your own insecurity."
"Yes."
"And now you've spent three hundred years making me pay for something I never did."
"Yes." Pryce moved closer. "Does reading it change anything? Does knowing I genuinely loved her—loved you—make the curse any less real?"
"No." Rhys stood, faced him. "It just makes it sadder. You had something beautiful, and you destroyed it because you were too proud, too possessive, too afraid of losing control."
Pryce's jaw tightened. "I was twenty-three. My father manipulated everything—"
"And you let him. You chose to believe the worst instead of trusting her. You chose violence over listening." Rhys stepped closer. "The curse isn't what binds us, Pryce. Your refusal to accept responsibility is."
For a moment, genuine pain flashed across Pryce's face.
"What would you have me do? I can't change the past."
"You can stop repeating it." Rhys gestured to the journal. "Every life, you do the same thing. Kill anyone who threatens your possession of me. You're still that jealous twenty-three-year-old prince who couldn't stand the thought of Elara loving anyone but him."
"Because you're MINE—"
"I'M NOT!" Rhys shouted. "I'm not Elara! I'm not your property! And until you accept that—truly accept it—this curse will never break!"
Silence fell heavy between them.
"Twenty-nine days left," Pryce finally said, voice cold. "Keep reading. Maybe you'll find something useful."
He vanished, leaving Rhys alone with the journals and a growing certainty: the key to breaking this curse wasn't in old books or magic spells.
It was in making Pryce understand what Valerian never did—that love without freedom is just another kind of death.