I was sixteen when the witch told me love would kill.
The palace was alive that night. Music echoed through the marble halls, candles burned so brightly they warmed the air, and everyone smiled as though happiness could last forever. It was my birthday, and for once, the court looked at me with something other than expectation.
Then the doors opened.
No one announced her.
She walked in slowly, dressed in black that swallowed the light, her hair long and silver, her eyes sharp enough to cut. The music died. Conversations fell apart mid-word. I remember thinking she looked old… and young… and angry all at once.
My father stood. "Guards—"
"It is too late," the woman said calmly.
Her gaze found me.
I felt it like a hand around my throat.
"You are Elara of the royal blood," she said. "Born into comfort you did not earn. Protected by people you will never understand."
My mother pulled me closer, but I could not look away.
"You will be loved," the witch continued, "but love will never save you."
She raised her hand.
"Any man who truly holds your heart will die for it."
Gasps filled the hall. Someone screamed. I laughed—because fear sometimes sounds like laughter when you don't understand it yet.
The witch's eyes softened, just slightly.
"You will understand soon."
And then she was gone.
That night, no one slept. Scholars argued. Priests prayed. My parents promised it would be undone.
I stood alone on my balcony, staring at the stars, unaware that they would one day watch me bury the men I loved.