The master bedroom was the one room Rhys had avoided. Too intimate. Too much Pryce's territory. But on day seven, he forced himself to enter.
The paintings covered every wall—landscapes, still lifes, portraits. All in Valerian's hand, varying from skilled to masterful as he aged.
And there, in the center: Elara's unfinished portrait. Her face complete and lovely, but her hands just sketches, reaching toward something outside the frame.
"He never finished it," Pryce's voice said behind him.
Rhys didn't jump anymore. He'd grown used to the ghost's sudden appearances.
"Why not?"
"Because he died before he could. Those hands—" Pryce moved to stand beside Rhys, studying the painting. "—were meant to be holding flowers. Purple wildflowers, like the ones she wore in her hair the day we met."
"It's beautiful."
"She was beautiful." Pryce's voice softened. "And I immortalized her as I saw her: reaching for something. Always just out of grasp. I thought I was painting love. Really, I was painting possession."
Rhys glanced at him. "You sound different. Less... angry."
"Nineteen days left. I'm trying to be honest." Pryce touched the painting, fingers passing through it like smoke. "Can I show you something?"
"What?"
"The rest of the paintings. The ones I've made since death. They're hidden." He gestured to a door Rhys hadn't noticed. "Come."
The hidden room was small, windowless, lit only by ghostly light Pryce provided.
And every wall was covered in paintings.
Rhys.
Or rather—every incarnation of him. Sarah at the tavern, Edmund in his study, Maria on horseback, David with his saxophone, Isabella laughing. And dozens more, smaller scenes: Thomas being murdered, Catherine's poisoned face, James shot, Michael beaten, Jennifer drowned.
And finally—Kai, crucified against the wall, blood spelling MINE.
Rhys felt sick.
"This is my hell," Pryce said quietly. "Every death I've caused. Every version of you I've failed. I paint them over and over, trying to... I don't know. Understand? Atone?"
"This is horrifying."
"It's honest." Pryce gestured to the wall of murders. "You wanted to know what I am? This is it. A ghost who can't stop creating art from his victims. Who immortalizes his crimes and calls it love."
Rhys stared at the paintings. Then at Pryce.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you deserve to know exactly who you're dealing with. Not the romantic prince from the journals. Not the gentle ghost at dinner. This." Pryce's voice was raw. "The monster who's murdered six people and will murder again if you try to love anyone else."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning." Pryce met his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, Rhys. I've never wanted that. But the curse doesn't care what I want. When you try to leave, I become... this."
He gestured to the paintings.
Rhys was quiet for a long moment.
"Show me the dungeons," he said finally.
Pryce's eyes widened. "What?"
"Where you kept Elara. Where it all went wrong. I need to see it."
"Rhys, I don't think—"
"Show me. If you want me to understand, if you want any chance of me believing this can be fixed, I need to see the worst of it."
Pryce looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Follow me."
The dungeons were beneath the palace, accessed through a hidden door in the kitchen. Stone steps wound down into darkness that Pryce's ghostly light barely pierced.
Cold. Damp. The smell of old death.
"This was the royal prison," Pryce explained as they descended. "Reserved for traitors and enemies of the crown. Elara was kept in cell seven."
He led Rhys down a corridor of barred cells, all empty now, until they reached one at the end.
It was small. Barely six feet square. A stone bench, shackles on the wall, nothing else.
"This is where I kept her for three weeks," Pryce said, voice hollow. "This is where I came every night to... to punish her."
Rhys stepped inside the cell. It was freezing, oppressive. He could almost feel the despair soaked into the stones.
"She begged you to listen."
"Every night." Pryce stood in the doorway, not entering. "And every night, I refused. I'd scream at her, accuse her, and then I'd..." He broke off. "You don't need me to describe it again."
"No." Rhys turned to face him. "But I need you to feel it. Really feel what you did."
"I do feel it! I've felt it for three hundred years—"
"Do you?" Rhys challenged. "Or do you just feel sorry for yourself? Poor cursed prince, trapped by his own actions, forced to repeat his violence forever?" His voice rose. "You haven't changed at all, Pryce. You're still blaming the curse instead of taking responsibility!"
"That's not fair—"
"ISN'T IT?" Rhys shouted, and the word echoed through the dungeon. "You say you want to be different, want to break the curse, but you're still possessive! Still jealous! Still convinced I belong to you!"
"Because you DO—"
"NO!" Rhys stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "I don't. I never did. And until you truly accept that—not just say it, but FEEL it in whatever's left of your soul—nothing will change."
They stood inches apart, Rhys breathing hard, Pryce absolutely still.
"What do you want from me?" Pryce whispered.
"I want you to let me go. Truly let me go.
Not because I choose you. Not because some curse demands it. But because you finally understand that love isn't ownership."
"And if I can't? If three hundred years of death haven't taught me that lesson?"
"Then we're both damned." Rhys's voice cracked. "Forever."
Silence fell heavy in the dungeon where Elara had suffered.
Finally, Pryce spoke, so quiet Rhys almost didn't hear:
"I'll try. I don't know if I can. But I'll try."
It wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't love.
But maybe—just maybe—it was the first real step toward breaking a curse born from the absence of both.