Page 1 of Heirs of the Cursed (A Curse for Two Souls #1)

Two weeks earlier

Beyond Lên Rājya, the pleas of the doomed echoed like murmurs of death.

King Kirus Allencort was tormented by them day and night, their sorrow a relentless omen of impending destruction. He paced back and forth in the large throne room, his darkened eyes set on the windows and beyond. In the city where the gates to the enemy kingdom stood.

But Ro’i Rājya had fallen long ago, and with it, the threat it posed to his empire. All that remained of his enemies were memories turned to dust and stone, for the world no longer dared to speak its name.

Not since the curse had turned it into a land of nightmares.

“See, Father?” The soft voice of his daughter, third in line for the throne, interrupted his thoughts. “We told you everything would be all right.”

The relief among the council members urged Kirus away from the window and toward the open doors, where one of the midwives had just retreated upon delivering the good news. After two long nights of confinement in her chambers, his wife had blessed him with another son. The corners of his lips tugged up in a grin. Sons were more powerful, their magic a weapon for him to wield.

“Annemarie is right, father,” Sirio, his second heir, agreed with her. “Mother has done this six times before.”

Surely, the seventh would be no problem , Kirus thought to himself.

Yet a high-pitched cry of deep pain proved them otherwise.

With a sense of erratic impatience knotted in his throat, Kirus violently pushed aside the servants obstructing his path and left the throne room. He climbed endless flights of stairs, feeling his own muscles stiffen.

Fate had been cruel to him, but the king had made his way in the games of power and risen above all others.

When he reached his wife’s room, he didn’t even deign to knock.

“What’s the matter?” he asked the physician. The elderly man, who froze under the king’s gaze, shook his head in disbelief. Not even the midwives or the apprentice offered him an answer. Kirus turned to his wife. “Demira, what’s wrong!”

In the gloom of the royal chamber, the queen lay on her bed, shrouded in a suffocating silence that was pierced only by the raspy whisper of her own breath. Her countenance, illuminated by the dim candlelight, reflected a mixture of anguish and despair as she held the newborn in her arms, clad with a crumpled, blood-stained cloth.

Demira’s gaze was fixed on the black nature beyond her window, cradling the baby with care, fearful that the slightest movement might undo their child’s fragile appearance. Her hands, so soft and delicate, now tensed, clutching the tiny body against her chest.

The king approached the bed, his eyes widening in surprise upon noticing the reason for her sorrow. The blanket his wife held was empty . There was no child to admire, no life. Only the remains of cracked stone broken into a thousand pieces.

Just like the curse of stone and shadow had predicted.

“By the Triad,” Kirus mumbled.

“I heard him cry . . .” the queen stammered. “I took him in my arms and listened to his little heartbeat . . . Oh goddesses, forgive me, I have killed our son! I have killed my little boy!”

“You have killed no one, Demira.” The king snatched the blanket from his wife and shook the stone remnants to the ground, eliciting gasps from the midwives who cried in silence. “Not my heir, at least.”

With fury boiling in his veins, Kirus left the room at a stiff, hurried pace. He didn’t need to seek advice from scholars nor ask them the cause of his seventh son’s death—not when he had been warned of the curse long ago. He’d have prayed to the goddesses for their guidance, if he weren’t so reluctant to leave the fate of his empire in their hands instead of doing it for himself.

The king made his way to the armory tower that was located at the eastern wing of the castle, where the soldiers on duty were relaxed in the lack of danger as they placed bets in a game of cards. They all stood to greet him, rushing aloft and arranging their leather jackets to make themselves presentable before their ruler.

“Father,” greeted Killian, his heir, with a nod of his head. “How can I serve you?”

“I need your best scout and the fastest horse you have, at once.”

“Ramsdean!” the Crown Prince shouted to his men. “Come here!”

A young man no older than twenty-four approached the king. Leonel Ramsdean had never been in his presence before; he didn’t even know that his name might come to have any recognition for Kirus Allencort.

His blond hair was tied in a ponytail, exposing his sky blue eyes which glittered with undesired expectation. Leonel had only recently been promoted to the Royal Army, the most prestigious force in the kingdom. It hadn’t been until now that he feared it to be a mistake he would soon regret.

Clenching his hands into fists, the young soldier tried to control his breathing.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Is this him?” Kirus Allencort questioned with a slight frown.

“He’s the best scout in the Royal Army.” Killian’s deep, slanted voice drowned out the ears of those present.

“I hope he won’t let me down.”

His son leaned against the door frame with a nonchalant air. “You can always cut off his head if you’re not pleased with his performance.”

Leonel held back a gasp of dread.

The king grimaced in approval and, without so much as a glance, spoke to the young soldier, “You will take the horse that will be ready at the castle entrance in five minutes. You will ride without rest to Evrethia and make sure that everything in the cursed kingdom is intact.”

“At your command, Your Majesty.” Leonel’s voice trembled, as did the rest of his body.

“You understand what is at stake, don’t you, Soldier Ramsdean?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he repeated.

“Good. Then you will obey my command and bring answers. Or I swear to you that the last thing you’ll see before you die will be rats eating your insides and crows devouring your eyes until you bleed to death.”

The threat still thundered in Leonel’s ears, even with the darkness of the early morning upon him. As he had been ordered, the young scout had begun his journey toward Evrethia, the ghost city that had been banned from residence since the last war came to an end. Tales of terror were told throughout the world about the desolate land bathed in shadows, yet Leonel didn’t know what awaited him.

Fear had accompanied him during the seven days of travel. He had ridden relentlessly across Edrivann Path, between Ferus Woods and Pixies’ Forest, rationing the food neither he nor the horse had been able to eat, both gripped by the fear of the fate they were about to face.

Leonel couldn’t help but think of his little sister and his mother, both defenseless against the kingdom’s weapons were he to fail the king. He couldn’t afford to do so, and if he did . . . Killian would find him, or perhaps the goddesses would be benevolent and it might be the Chaser who did. They’d tear him apart and kill everyone he had ever loved.

As he arrived at the city that protected the entrance to the cursed kingdom, the soldier prayed to the Triad to provide him the answer the king sought. His prayers grew louder when he stepped through the crypt’s door and into the eerie silence.

The smell of decay and death accompanied him down the steep stairs, and Leonel instinctively pressed a hand to his nose, trying to push it away from his lungs. His fingers grazed the walls made of dry earth and the remains of bones, as he lifted the oil lamp to see his surroundings.

What would he find downstairs?

Would it be a never ending rot? Corpses infected by diseases and consumed by years of torment?

The flights of stairs ended in a sandy, slippery floor that branched off into three narrow, cramped corridors. Hanging in the air, above the foul smell, he distinguished two sweet scents: tulips in the right path and poppies in the left one. The absence of footprints in the soil led him to believe they hadn’t been frequented by the last scouts.

A stinking trail came from the darkness in the path between them. Following the footprints, Leonel hoped it was the right path. He turned several times until coming upon a colossal statue protruding from the wall. It was the head of a tiger that left an opening in the shape of an elegant, closed door. Leonel approached and stroked the wall—cold and intimidating, it conveyed a cautionary warning.

The Door of Etmek, the only means of salvation that the goddess Gimmera had provided them to avoid their doom. A door that separated the kingdoms born of light and darkness, and that had kept the peace for hundreds of years until it was opened.

Leonel Ramsdean knocked three times, as he was required to do.

One for each goddess: a creator, a preserver, and a destroyer.

A sudden boreal glare sliced through the frame and the door opened with a shrill echo, similar to a distant roar.

He closed his fingers tightly around the oil lamp, walking cautiously to avoid the treacherous stones that could send him tumbling from the bridge that connected the catacombs to the once imposing castle of onyx. The doors and windows, the flying buttresses and the moons and stars that decorated the turrets had all been turned to stone.

The soldier couldn’t help but admire the capital of the cursed kingdom. Despite the fear, terror, and danger, he was awash with surprise and amazement upon finding himself in such a magnificent place that towered above him.

What had become of Ro’i Rājya? Was it really a forgotten tomb or the true nightmare of a cursed kingdom?

He headed toward the castle, oblivious to how the flame in his lamp had gradually faded. The vastness of the structure prevented Leonel from seeing the entire kingdom spread out into the distance, as well as the rest of the cities, seas, forests and mountains they were taught to despise.

Twenty minutes passed, and Leonel reached the castle door. As he pushed it, the corroded hinges creaked and let out a cold breeze that chilled his blood. In front of him, the statues of maids, servants, and guards welcomed him, each frozen with faces of horror at the inevitable death that had claimed them.

Leonel had always believed that the daimonas—the children of the goddess of destruction—were monsters. Creatures tortured by their own darkness and fated to doom them all. But the panic that tinged their petrified faces made him question if they were monsters at all.

He climbed the stairs to the royal chambers. The steps creaked under the scout’s weight and the wind accompanied him, watching his every move—as if hopeful that he could do something to save them.

He forced himself not to look back as he reached the last floor.

The room of the regents was the first he investigated. In it, Erlina and Tavarious Boreaalinen lay on the bed in an embrace, eyes closed. Their intertwined hands were clasped between their hearts.

Love could conquer everything, even fear, but not death.

Leonel went to the next room, where the king had told him that the cradles of the cursed princesses were located.

The Dark Twins.

When the soldier crossed the threshold, his heart stopped. That room was undoubtedly the worst of all. The walls, the furniture, the windows . . . They were covered with a dangerous plant, born from the curse. The holly of death grew from their very cradles.

Leonel leaned over the cradles, and what he saw in them churned the pit of his stomach to reveal his greatest fear.

They were empty.

The princesses were gone.

Leonel returned to the castle, his face so pale that some of his comrades in the Royal Army had asked him if he had seen ghosts with vengeful plans during his secret mission in Evrethia.

When the guards opened the doors to the throne room, the king already awaited his arrival, sitting on his golden throne with Prince Killian standing at his side.

“Well?” he inquired. “What did you find?”

Leonel’s words rushed out before he could process them. “The princesses. Queen Erlina’s daughters . . . They’re gone. They’ve disappeared!”

“That’s impossible,” Killian denied. “Nothing can leave the cursed kingdom without paying a price.”

The king frowned and the shadows in his eyes danced with hidden emotions. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” Killian folded his arms.

“Unless they had never been there.”

The sharp silence made Leonel shrink.

“That’s impossible,” the prince said.

“Then tell me, Killian, how is it possible that the child died turned to stone as soon as he was born!” he spat. “Explain it to me!”

Killian tried to think of a coherent answer, but there was none.

“Soldier Ramsdean is the only one who has done a thorough exploration. In the reports received, none of the soldiers went beyond the second floor. Prepare the troops, Killian, and release the Chaser,” King Kirus announced. “We are going hunting.”

“And once we find them?”

The king lifted his chin, and the world cracked slightly.

“We will destroy their legacy and all they were promised. We will claim their crowns until the world bows to us and end them once and for all.”