DRAVEN STORMHOLT

The woman beside me was breathing too hard. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, smell the desperation in her sweat. She thought I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but blindness had taught me to read people in ways they never expected.

"Please," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Just let me touch you. Let me try."

I turned my face away from her on the pillow. The silk was cool against my cheek, a small comfort in this suffocating room. "No."

"But the Alpha King, he said—"

"I know what my father said." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "And I know what you're here for. But it won't work."

She shifted on the bed, and I could hear her swallow hard. The sound was loud in the darkness that was always my world. Everything was loud when you couldn't see. Every breath, every heartbeat, every lie.

"Maybe if we just try," she said. "Maybe this time will be different."

This time. There had been so many times. So many women sent to my chambers with the same desperate hope in their voices. All of them thinking they would be the one to break whatever curse hung over me. All of them were wrong.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My feet found the cold stone floor, and I used that contact to orient myself in the room. The bed was here, which meant the window was to my left, the door straight ahead. My world was made of landmarks and careful measurements.

"You should get some sleep," I told her. "The servants will come for you in the morning."

"Will you tell them that we—"

"I won't lie for you."

Her breath caught. I heard her sit up behind me, the bedsheets rustling. "Please. They'll kill me if they think I failed."

"You did fail." The words felt heavy in my mouth. "But not because you didn't try hard enough. You failed because there's nothing to succeed at."

I stood and walked toward where I knew my robe hung on a hook by the window. My hands found the soft fabric, and I pulled it on. The morning air was cool against my skin, carrying with it the scent of dew and something else. Something green and growing that made me think of forests I'd never seen.

Behind me, the woman was crying quietly. Soft, muffled sobs that she probably thought I couldn't hear. But I heard everything. The way her tears dropped onto the silk sheets, the way her breath hitched in her throat, the way her heart was beating too fast with fear.

"What's your name?" I asked without turning around.

"Elena, Your Highness."

"Well, Elena. When the servants ask if you completed your task, what will you tell them?"

The crying stopped. "I... I don't know."

"Tell them the truth. Tell them the prince is not a breeding machine, and the king will eventually learn to stop sending lambs to slaughter."

A sharp intake of breath. "Your Highness, I can't say that. They'll think I'm speaking treason."

"Then don't speak it as treason. Speak it as fact."

Morning came too soon. It always did. I heard the servants in the hallway before they knocked, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls in the particular rhythm that meant business. Official business.

The knock came three times, sharp and demanding. "Your Highness? We're here for the girl."

I was already dressed, sitting in the chair by the window where the morning sun would have been warming my face if I could see it. Instead, I felt its heat on my skin and pretended that was enough.

"Come in."

The door opened, and I heard two sets of footsteps. Heavy boots on stone. Guards, then, not just servants. They were taking this seriously today.

"Where is she?" The voice belonged to Marcus, the head of the household guard. I recognized the slight wheeze in his breathing from an old battle wound.

Elena was still on the bed. I could hear her shallow breathing, could smell her fear growing stronger by the second.

"She's here," I said. "Ask her yourself how the night went."

"Well?" Marcus's voice was impatient. "Did you complete your task?"

The silence stretched long enough that I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"The prince says I should tell you the truth," Elena finally whispered.

"And what truth is that?"

"That he's not a breeding machine. And that the king will eventually learn to stop."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. I heard Marcus suck in a sharp breath, heard his companion take a step back toward the door.

"You're saying you failed," Marcus said carefully.

"I'm saying it was impossible from the start."

What happened next was predictable. The sound of boots moving fast across stone, Elena's scream as they grabbed her, the scrape of her fingernails against the bedframe as she tried to hold on.

"No!" she screamed. "I don't want to die! Please, I don't want to die!"

Her voice echoed down the hallway as they dragged her away, growing fainter with each step. I sat still in my chair, listening until I couldn't hear her anymore. Then there was just silence and the sound of my own breathing.

I counted to one hundred before I spoke. "Is anyone still there?"

"Yes, Your Highness." A different voice this time. Younger. Probably one of the newer servants.

"Good. I believe I'll have a month of peace now."

"I'm afraid not, Your Highness."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "What do you mean?"

"The healer, Constance, was sent by Alpha Kaelen to one of the outer villages a week ago. She's bringing back a fresh group of virgins and servants. They'll most likely arrive by today or tonight."

Of course. Of course my father wouldn't give up. He never gave up on anything, especially not on the idea that his cursed son might somehow produce an heir. I stood up from the chair, feeling suddenly restless.

"Where is my walking stick?"

"I believe it's by the door, Your Highness. Shall I—"

"No."

I made my way across the room carefully, using the furniture and my memory of the space to guide me. My shin bumped against a low table, and I had to stop and reorient myself. The room seemed different in my frustration, like the walls had moved while I wasn't paying attention.

"Let me help you, Your Highness," the servant said.

"I said no."

My hands found the door frame, then swept along the wall until I felt the familiar smooth wood of my walking stick. The carved wolf's head at the top fit perfectly in my palm, worn smooth by years of use. With it in my hand, I felt more steady. More like myself.

"I'm going to see my father."

"Your Highness, perhaps you should wait. The king is holding court this morning, and—"

"Perfect. Then he'll already be in his throne room."

I made my way through the corridors with practiced steps. My stick tapped against the stone floor in a steady rhythm, the sound echoing off the walls and coming back to me changed. It told me when the ceiling was high or low, when the hallway narrowed or widened, when there were people pressed against the walls trying to stay out of my way.

The castle was busy this morning. I could hear servants hurrying about their duties, their footsteps quick and light. Somewhere in the distance, metal rang against metal where the guards were training. The sounds painted a picture of the world around me, one built from noise instead of sight.

The doors to the throne room were massive oak panels that took two men to open. I heard them creak apart as I approached, and the herald's voice rang out clear and formal.

"His Royal Highness, Prince Draven Stormholt!"

The conversations in the throne room didn't stop immediately. They never did. Instead, they shifted into something else. Whispers. Murmurs. The kind of sounds people made when they thought they were being subtle but weren't.

I walked forward into the room, my stick clicking against the polished marble floor. Each step echoed in the vast space, and I used those echoes to judge the size of the room, the height of the ceiling, the number of people watching me.

They were all watching me. I could feel their eyes like weight on my skin. The blind prince. The cursed heir. The disappointment that walked on two legs and carried a stick.

I'd been hearing those whispers my entire life. They didn't bother me anymore.

Much.

"Father," I said when I judged I was close enough to the throne. "We need to talk."