The Curse That Wears a Crown
The tale begins, as all tragic ones do, with a love that was never meant to survive.
Centuries ago, before velvet touched royalty and thorns grew beneath marble floors, there was a kingdom that stood atop a hill of glass and gold—Velnare, land of light, song, and sovereign beauty. Its prince was the most beloved of any born under sun or moon. They called him Thorne of the Velvet Tongue, the prince who could bend the world with a smile and mend it with a word.
But beauty is a fragile kingdom, and envy its favorite architect.
And one night, when the stars hung lower than they should have, the prince's heart was betrayed—and a curse was cast so intricately cruel it became legend.
"You shall be adored by all… but never truly loved.Let them crave you, name you beautiful, kiss the ground you walk upon—And let each one who dares to love you perish by it.Let their minds wither, their hearts wander, their souls vanish…Until you forget what love was meant to be."
—The dying words of the Witch of Ivarra
And so the Velvet Curse was born.
Present Day
The Court of Velnare
They still adore him.
They always do.
Every morning, courtiers crowd the eastern corridor where the prince takes his walks—fanning themselves, smoothing silks, hoping for a glance, a word, a lingering smile. They say his presence is like warmth in winter, his voice like honeyed wine. Mothers offer their daughters. Daughters offer themselves.
And he—Prince Thorne—gives them all what they want: grace, charm, elegance, allure.
But behind his smile is silence.
Because Thorne has not felt anything real in over two hundred years.
In his private chambers, beneath heavy drapes and walls carved with forgotten runes, Thorne dresses alone.
No attendants. No mirrors.
Just silence.
His cloak lies across a velvet chaise—a ceremonial piece passed from king to king, woven with spells older than the kingdom itself. Embroidered in bloodred thread, the sigils on its hem whisper in languages only ghosts remember. He never wears it.
Not anymore.
He moves like a painting come to life: deliberate, beautiful, distant. His hair is dark gold, a shade poets call autumnfire. His skin, flawless. His eyes—pale silver-blue, like frost over still water—hold storms no one sees.
And if you looked closer, you might notice something strange:
Every lover he has ever touched is gone.Vanished.Lost to madness, grief, or thin air.Not one survived him.Not one was real.
He is adored. He is worshipped.
He is terribly, impossibly alone.
Outside, the kingdom thrives. Velnare is a land of balance—of opulent courts, intricate etiquette, and soft-footed betrayal. Magic exists here not in fire or thunder but in fabric, voice, and binding words.
The old bloodlines know how to speak truth into thread, how to curse a name with the stitch of a needle. The royal tailors are as feared as the palace seers.
And when the ceremonial cloak begins to decay—its magic faltering, threads unraveling—the high court panics.
They summon every noble embroiderer, every royal weaver.
But the cloak rejects them all.
Until one woman is summoned from the provinces. Unknown. Unpolished.
A tailor with no title and no gift for charm.
Her name is Aerin.
And the cloak moves beneath her fingers like it remembers her.
The prince doesn't know her yet.
He doesn't know her voice will silence the curse.He doesn't know her touch will crack the spell.He doesn't know he will fall—for the first and last time.
But in three days' time, she will arrive.
And everything he thought he knew about love, magic, and his own heart—will begin to unravel.