The royal banners, once proud symbols of the kingdom of Elarion, now hung limp in the heavy stillness of the courtyard. Princess Aralyn stood alone at the centre of the stone courtyard, her crimson cloak fluttering slightly as though reluctant to part from her.
A dark weight seemed to settle over her, pressing on her very soul, as her gaze fell upon the faces of the court, once familiar, now distant and cold. Their gazes held no warmth—only cold fear and suspicion, the kind that pierced deeper than any blade. It was strange, she thought, how swiftly admiration had turned to contempt. Only weeks before, they had sung her praises. Now, they would not even meet her eyes.
"Princess Aralyn of House Eldarion," a voice echoed through the silence, shattering the stillness. It belonged to Lord Kestrel, the Shadow Regent. He stood at the forefront of the gathered nobles, his imposing frame wrapped in the gold-embroidered robes of his station. His sharp grey eyes scanned her with calculated precision, like a hawk circling its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"You are sentenced to exile," he declared, his voice a cold edict that left no room for argument. "For the safety of this kingdom and its people, you are to leave the borders of Elarion at once. Your curse has brought ruin to us all."
Aralyn's fists clenched, but she maintained her composure. She wanted to argue, to shout that it was not her fault. But she knew the truth: the storm that had swept through the Harvest Festival, flattening crops and flooding the granaries, was caused by her. Or rather, by her curse.
She remembered the night too vividly. She had been standing at the ceremonial pyre, her family beside her, as she lit the first flame of the harvest season. It was supposed to be a celebration of prosperity and unity. Instead, the sky had turned an unnatural shade of black, and a storm had risen from nowhere, tearing through the fields and leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.
And all of it had started the moment her hands touched the torch.
The people needed no proof; they saw only what they chose to see. Her curse had ceased to be a shadowed whisper—it was an undeniable truth. Famine had followed her footsteps before, but this time, the evidence was too clear, too devastating to ignore.
She forced herself to meet Lord Kestrel's gaze. "You think banishing me will stop the curse?" Her voice was steady, though she felt anything but. "It won't. Exiling me only delays the inevitable."
"Kestrel's lip curled into something resembling a smirk. "Perhaps. But with you gone, the kingdom will have time to recover. We are doomed, were you to remain."
Aralyn's heart sank. She wasn't naïve; she understood that this was as much a political maneuver as it was a matter of fear. Kestrel had long coveted power, and with her father growing weaker, her exile eliminated yet another obstacle to his ambitions.
Her eyes swept over the gathered nobles, searching for a trace of sympathy. She found none. Even her family—her father, King Eldarion, and her younger brother, Prince Ryn—stood behind the crowd, their faces shrouded in shadow. Ryn's gaze met hers for a fleeting moment, his expression torn between guilt and helplessness, but he said nothing. The king looked away entirely, his shoulders heavy with the weight of years and defeat.
"So be it," she declared, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, tempered with the weight of finality. "But when the curse follows me to the edges of the world and back, don't think for a moment that I chose this. You forced my hand."
Lord Kestrel raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He didn't have to.
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The gates of the palace groaned open as two guards stepped forward, swords drawn. They escorted her through the courtyard, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone. Her crimson cloak dragged behind her, a lone streak of defiance in the greyness of the morning.
The crowd parted in silence as she walked. No one spoke. No one cheered. No one begged her to stay.
When she reached the gates, a single guard extended his hand. "Your crown," he said gruffly, his eyes avoiding hers.
Aralyn's fingers brushed the delicate circlet resting upon her brow, its weight suddenly unbearable. It was a simple thing, silver entwined with emeralds—the mark of her station as the kingdom's heir. She hesitated, feeling the weight of what it symbolised. But then she removed it and placed it into the guard's outstretched hands.
"Take care of it," she said, her voice low. "It means more to the kingdom than it does to me."
The guard nodded and stepped aside.
Outside the gates, a single horse waited for her. It was a sturdy creature, grey with a white streak down its flank, and it pawed the ground impatiently as she approached. A saddlebag hung from its side, filled with supplies that would last her only a few days. The message was clear: she was on her own.
Aralyn climbed into the saddle, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head as she turned the horse towards the horizon. The gates groaned shut behind her, sealing her fate with their finality.
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The road stretched endlessly before her, a winding ribbon of dirt and gravel cutting through barren fields, as though it too shared in her desolation. Crops lay flattened, trees were stripped of their leaves, and rivers had overflowed their banks, carving jagged scars through the earth.
She rode in silence, the weight of her exile pressing down on her. Anger flared within her—rage at the curse, at Kestrel, at the people who had turned their backs on her. But beneath the fury was something colder, heavier: fear.
The stories of her curse were more than folklore. Wherever she stayed for too long, ruin followed. It began subtly—crops that withered despite healthy soil, livestock that grew sick without reason. But it always escalated, and now she had no doubt the curse was real. It wasn't just her burden to bear anymore; it had become a danger to anyone near her.
She had to find a way to end it, no matter the cost.
Hours passed as she rode, the sun climbing high before dipping towards the horizon. Her body ached from the saddle, but she pushed on, unwilling to stop until nightfall. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to keep moving.
By the time the first stars began to peek through the twilight sky, she had reached the edge of the woods. The trees loomed tall and shadowed, their branches twisting into a canopy that swallowed the last light of day. A signpost stood crooked at the edge of the path, its words worn away by time.
She could hear the faint howl of wolves in the distance, their mournful calls drifting through the quiet air. The wind, heavy with anticipation, carried the promise of rain, rustling the leaves and making the air feel thicker with each breath.
There was no turning back now.
She nudged the horse forward, into the shadows of the forest.
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The woods were eerily quiet, save for the occasional stirring of branches and leaves. Shadows danced between the trees, and the air grew colder with every step. Aralyn pulled her cloak tighter around her, her senses alert. She sensed eyes upon her, though there was no sign of anyone.
The first arrow whistled past her ear, its sharp hiss the only warning before the storm of danger descended, as if the forest itself had come alive with threat.
The arrow slammed into the tree trunk inches from her head, the wood splintering on impact. She yanked the reins, spinning her horse around just as a group of figures emerged from the shadows. Bandits! Five of them, clad in mismatched armour and wielding swords and daggers.
"Well, what do we have here?" one of them sneered, stepping forward. He was tall and wiry, with a jagged scar running down his cheek. "A little lost princess?"
Aralyn's hand went to the dagger at her belt. "I'm no princess," she said coldly. "Not anymore."
The bandit laughed. "All the better. No kingdom to miss you when we take what we want."
Her grip tightened on the dagger. Cursed, cast out, and forsaken—yet still Aralyn of Elarion. And though the world had turned its back, she would fight to the last breath.