The curse first revealed itself in winter.
Not in blood, not in death.
But in roses.
Black thorn roses began climbing the palace wall the night Princess Seraphine Vale was born. They curled around marble pillars and slipped through cracks in the stone like living fingers searching for something...buried. By morning, the royal gardens were already choking with them, their petals dark as ink against the snow.
The servants called it an omen. The priests called it a punishment. The king ordered every flower burned before the sun had fully risen.
But they always grew back.
Seraphine's earliest memory was standing at her nursery window, small hands pressed against the glass as she watched the gardeners hack at the thorned vines below. Snow drifted through the air like ash, settling on the palace grounds as though even the sky was mourning something no one would name aloud. No matter how many times the plants were cut down, their roots stayed alive beneath the earth, waiting.
The kingdom of Ashmere had always feared cursed things, and the royal family feared them most of all.
Especially when the curse wore a crown.
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