Traded to the cursed lycan king

Karina

"Princess Elira of Eldenmere."

Gasps rippled through the throne room.

Elira stepped forward, her golden braid gleaming beneath her veil, hands trembling despite the smile she tried to hold. My eldest sister-the perfect one, the prized one-stumbled slightly as she bowed before the High Priest.

I almost exhaled, excited because it wasn't my name.

Because I wasn't supposed to be a part.

Elira had always been the obvious choice. She was beloved. Dignified. Firstborn. A sacrifice worthy of legend. Of course the decree would choose her.

The High Priest unrolled the scroll again.

His voice rang out, steady and cold.

"Princess Karina of Eldenmere."

My jaw dropped.

Silence everywhere.

That kind of silence that thickens in your ears. I thought maybe I'd heard wrong. Misunderstood. But the look on Elira's face-the way her head jerked toward me, the sudden horror in her eyes-that confirmed it.

I blinked.

"No," I said, too softly.

The court didn't stir. They were waiting.

"For clarity," the priest said, raising his voice for all to hear, "the Moonbound Decree has named Karina Valehart, fifth daughter of House Eldenmere."

Fifth, not first not even third.

Fifth.

Expendable.

I stood there, rooted, as eyes turned like blades. I saw pity in some. Amusement in others. But in my mother's gaze, there was only one thing.

Relief.

And that broke me more than the name itself.

"You knew," I whispered, not caring that the court could hear. "You knew it would be me."

She didn't deny it.

She just looked away.

The priest closed the scroll, sealing my fate with one crisp motion. "The bride will be prepared. The journey begins at dawn."

Then he turned, robes whispering across the marble floor, and left me standing in front of a kingdom that had already erased me.

Elira didn't look back.

None of them did.

I wanted to scream. To demand someone fix it. That they read it again. But deep down, a voice colder than the moonlight already knew-there would be no mistake in a curse this old.

The blood pact had chosen.

And it had chosen me.

"Drink this," the maid said, pressing a steaming cup into my hands.

I ignored her.

I was back in my chambers, the scent of rose oil and firewood trying to pretend nothing had changed. My traveling trunk was already packed. My wedding dress-yes, they dared to call it that-hung from the door like a noose in silk.

"They never even considered Elira," I said.

The maid, young and quiet, said nothing.

"I was always going," I muttered. "They just didn't tell me."

I sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding the cup. My fingers shook, though not from the heat.

"They've been preparing for this," I said, tasting bitterness. "Every lesson, every smile. Every time they reminded me to obey. They raised me to walk into this like a lamb."

Still, the maid was silent.

I turned to her. "Do you know what happens to the brides?"

She looked down.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Of course you do. Everyone does. They just pretend the stories are old. That they're legends. But not one bride has returned. Not ever."

The silence answered for her.

I stood.

"Leave," I said.

She hesitated.

"I said leave."

This time she obeyed, bowing quickly and hurrying out, the door clicking shut behind her.

The room fell still.

I faced the mirror. My reflection didn't look like a bride. It looked like a ghost.

I wasn't afraid of death. I'd read enough books to understand that death could be merciful. What I feared-what clawed at my ribs-was being forgotten. Dying nameless in a land of monsters while Eldenmere thrived on my sacrifice.

Like the others.

Like the ones whose names were erased from the records.

I stared at my reflection. Then I whispered, "You don't belong to them anymore."

Then I tore the veil from my hair.

The journey began before sunrise.

They didn't send an escort of honor. No trumpets. No procession. Just a black carriage, a squadron of grim-faced guards, and a single priest to seal the rite.

I didn't say goodbye to my sisters. They didn't come.

My mother stood at the gate, dressed in mourning white.

"Mother," I said.

She didn't speak.

"Was I always meant for this?"

Her expression didn't change.

I stepped closer. "You could've told me."

"You would have tried to run," she said.

"I still might."

"No," she said. "You won't."

Her certainty struck harder than any farewell.

And then she did something I will never forget.

She leaned in and kissed my forehead like it was already a grave marker.

Then she turned her back.

I climbed into the carriage without another word.

By midmorning, the last of Eldenmere's banners had disappeared behind the frost-heavy trees.

The air grew colder the farther north we went. Not natural cold-something older, wilder, wrong. The sky darkened even though it was still morning. Birds stopped singing. The wind stopped moving.

Even the horses seemed uneasy, snorting and tossing their heads as if they sensed what lay ahead.

The priest, seated across from me, stared out the window, muttering old prayers in a language I didn't know.

"What is the name of the king?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"Does he still have one?"

The priest glanced at me, eyes hollow. "You will call him husband."

"And if I don't?"

He gave a small, sad smile. "Then I hope your death is swift."

I didn't speak again.

Neither did he.

We traveled in silence, bound by a curse older than the bones of the mountains ahead.

But one thing burned bright and cold in my chest, louder than the wind, louder than the wheels grinding over frozen earth.

They didn't expect me to survive.

Good.

Let them be wrong.