Beneath the kingdom’s rotting floors and weathered stones, a cursed knight hung by his wrists from rusted chains. The familiar dull snap of bone wrenching him awake, the shock ripping through his forearms as his feet desperately searched for the floor. There was no floor. There was never a floor.

  Pain found him there in many forms. Be it hunger and thirst, or the cold ache of a heart long since torn apart. At this moment, it was deep in his flesh, raw and searing, overwhelming him.

  He couldn’t be certain how many times he’d woken in this way. At first, he would resist the pain, and it would swallow him whole. He’d since learned to let it wash over him, then push it aside like an old habit, burying it beneath his breath.

  He closed his eyes, but it changed nothing in a dungeon where darkness reigned absolute. It only grounded him.

  The ever-present sound of dripping, thick and heavy, gave him a rhythm to follow. A sound he could only assume was his own blood. At times he found the sound maddening, but in these moments of agony, the dreadful rhythm was as welcome as the steady heartbeat of another.

  Vivid visions flickered in his mind as his curse forced his flesh to mend once more, torn sinews reaching for their anchors, and split bone bridging a bloody divide. The line between memory and fantasy long swallowed, his suffering pulled into focus hallucinations of a life lost.

  An image of his love.

  Memories of her his last remaining comfort. He saw the loose strands of her hair spun to gold in the sun’s warm glow. He recalled the way goosebumps rose on her arm in the wake of his touch. He could feel his heart stir, attempting to beat as though it had once again found a reason.

  The grinding of mending bone tore him from his dream, from his memory. His heart lay lifeless again as the cycle began anew. He would hang there until hunger left him emaciated and frail. Until his hands were severed by his own greedy weight, dragging him to the floor where he’d wither to a husk in a pool of his own blood as the ages ground him to dust.

  He'd be conscious for every agonizing moment.

  Light stabbed his eyes like a blade, and he snapped them shut as he jerked his head away. His petrified neck cracked at the sudden motion. The needling screech of rusted hinges cut through the silence. A deafening clang of thick iron on stone shook the air, filling his head with an unforgiving pressure and his ears with a piercing ring.

  Through it, a voice boomed, cold and commanding, “You’re free, by order of the king.”

  The knight pried his throbbing eyes open and looked down, still unable to face the light. It flickered across the bloody stone that lay an arm’s length beneath his toes.

  “Get him loose,” the voice added.

  He glanced up and could make out two imposing silhouettes marching toward him. The rattling of their chainmail echoed.

  “This is him?” One of them asked, his young voice sharp with offense.

  The other answered with a chuckle, his voice gravelly, “This is him.”

  The guards loosened his shackles. He slammed into the ground. His atrophied legs folding under the meek skeletal form of his haggard body.

  “Bet I could take his head now. Do him in with one swipe,” the younger guard commented: arrogance dripping from every syllable.

  “You’d think,” the older guard said, somewhat bemused, “But you’d be wrong. And you certainly wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Get him up,” their commander ordered. “The King’s waiting.”

  “Come on, then,” the old guard grunted as he grabbed the knight’s frail arms.

  The younger guard sighed and did the same, a sense of malice in his grip. As they dragged him out of the dungeon and into the light, warmth washed over him. It hugged him like an old friend and dulled the ache that had taken root.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Are you saying he’s been beheaded before?” the young guard asked.

  “He has,” the older replied. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen this man walk around with an arrow buried in his chest to the fletching. Yanked it right out. Then, went on about his business like he hadn’t been shot through the heart.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Ever been past the outer walls?”

  “No, I’ve not.”

  “Once you have, find me and tell me again what’s possible.”

  Eventually, the scraping of rough stones gave way to the burning of carpet against his raw skin. He lifted his head and stole a glance, his eyes still struggling to bring the world into focus. On the wall hung a familiar tapestry.

  The sight sharpened his memory, pulling buried details to the surface like a face revealing itself through the mist that had become his mind. His only light in the dark.

  Together they watched birds flutter through their patch of clear sky, surrounded by the swirling darkness of wild magic. They were safe within the kingdom’s walls, safe from the curses that clung to them like mold. Safe in each other’s arms.

  “Do you think the magic will ever be tamed?” she asked in the last moments they’d shared together.

  “A question for a mage, I suppose,” he replied.

  She rolled on her side to face him. “And your curse? Any royal I’ve ever known would gladly kill for what you call a curse.”

  “Yes, well,” he replied, tilting his head toward her, “I don’t need to live forever. I only need to live for you.”

  He could feel the warmth of her smile, the way her hand graced his cheek, and the soft press of her lips against his. She climbed on top of him and, with a giggle, said, “Then, by royal decree, I order you to live.”

  The carpet under his toes ended, and the cool smoothness of polished marble replaced it, pulling him back to the present. The air carried the rich scent of fresh bread and spiced wine. Saliva flooded his mouth, the cracks in his lips stinging as sensation returned. Hunger twisted his stomach in sickening knots, pushing bile into the back of his throat. It felt as if his stomach were clawing its way out, hunting for the source of its desire.

  When the guards stopped, one seized a fistful of his matted hair and yanked, forcing his head up. The king sat before him.

  “Can you stand?” the king asked.

  The knight said nothing.

  “Can you speak?” the king asked.

  The knight managed to shake his head. Then his gaze drifted to two servants who stood at attention, tucked away in the corner of the throne room. One held a platter of golden-brown bread, and the other a tray upon which sat a glass pitcher of wine as red as blood and a chalice. The king snapped, and the two rushed toward the knight with quick, anxious steps.

  The first knelt, raising a roll toward his mouth. He took a bite. Warmth and sweetness ran through him as he swallowed, and a broken sound escaped his throat.

  The second set her tray on the floor, then lifted the pitcher and poured the wine into the silver chalice. The knight could see his own ghastly reflection, warped on its surface. He opened his mouth, hardly holding his head steady. With the gentleness one uses for a child, she tilted the chalice against his lips. Its bitter taste sent a jolt through his weary body.

  His chest tightened as his heart found its rhythm again. His skin prickled as blood moved through him at last, returning color to his pallid skin in flushing patches. Thoughts and memories cut through the fog and snapped into place. Old sensations stirred, sharp and startling as strength bled slowly back into him. His arms and hands filled around the bone, giving his flesh shape once more.

  “How?” the young guard whispered.

  The old guard quietly chuckled.

  The knight struggled against their grip.

  “Release him,” the king ordered.

  They did. Reverent, he looked at the servants while he settled onto his knees and nodded to them both. He grabbed the roll with an unsteady hand and took another bite. When he reached for the chalice, his grip faltered, sending wine splashing across the floor. The servant was quick to soak it up with her apron.

  “Apologies.” The knight’s voice came out raspy.

  She refilled his chalice, setting it on the floor beside him.

  “Leave us,” the king commanded.

  Without hesitation, the guards marched out of the throne room. The servants shuffled off behind them, but not before setting down the platter of bread.

  The deep sound of heavy doors signaled their leave. The knight looked at the king. New lines marked the king’s face, and shades of gray had overtaken his beard. Through a strained voice the knight asked, “How long?”

  The king, unflinching, answered. “Eight years.”

  Beside the throne, the highbacked chair sat empty. After another sip of his wine, the knight asked, “Why’ve you summoned me?”

  A tremor of sorrow and fear rippled across the king’s face. “The princess is gone,” he replied, the faintest shake in his words promptly restrained. “Lost on passage to Emberhold. Her carriage vanished midway through Fel Wood Pass. Sir Draven was with her.”

  “When,” the knight asked.

  “A week’s time now. I know she is gone, but I ask you to retrieve her remains, so that I might lay her to rest beside her mother. Your freedom for her return.”

  “My king,” the knight said, bowing his head. A solitary tear broke loose, carving a silent trail down his face.

  He rose to his feet, his legs steady and sure, and offered a solemn bow. He turned and his footsteps echoed behind him as he left the king to mourn.