The house was asleep. In the peaceful silence of the night, only the gentle breezes made the curtains dance at the half-open windows. Aria, nestled in her blanket, had fallen into a light sleep, lulled by the discreet song of the crickets.
But suddenly, her eyelids flew open. A thought struck her like lightning: the plant.
— The moonflowers… Grandma told me to bring them in before the dew... she murmured, sitting up abruptly.
Those rare blossoms, entrusted to her with such care, would lose their healing properties if left out in the night's moisture. Aria jumped from her bed, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and stepped barefoot onto the cool garden earth.
Outside, the moon bled across the sky, casting a reddish glow that wrapped the world in haunting poetry. She hurried to the baskets where the plants had been laid out. A shiver crawled up her spine — the air felt heavier, stranger.
Once the flowers were carefully gathered into their box, a sound pierced the stillness. A moan — distant, guttural, almost inhuman.
Aria froze, heart suspended.
Her gaze turned toward the forest.
Again, the sound. Louder. A groan of pain, like a wounded beast. Without thinking, clutching the box tightly to her chest, she took a step… then another. She set the box down beneath a tree and stepped forward, senses alert.
At the edge of a mist-covered clearing, she saw him.
A slumped figure against a trunk. A black cloak stained with blood. Dark wings folded in on themselves, trembling from fatigue. A crimson flicker pulsed in the gloom.
Aria raised a hand to her mouth. It was him. The cursed king.
She moved closer, slow, silent — but a snapped twig made him turn his head. His red eyes opened, burning, feral. He growled, voice laced with pain.
— What are you… doing here? he rasped, his voice twisted by agony.
— You're hurt… she said in a soft but steady voice. I can help you…
He shifted slightly, eyes hard, fangs gleaming.
— Leave.
— No. She stepped forward. Your wounds will fester if left untreated.
— You approach… despite the flames, he murmured, almost like an ancient verse, toward this mystery of shattered souls...
She knelt beside him. Her hands trembled — not with fear, but with compassion. Fascination.
— I only want to help you.
He pushed her away roughly. Aria fell to the damp ground, knees scraped.
— You're insane, he growled, face twisted. You dare approach me — the monster? You think I won't devour you like the others?
— I don't believe you're a monster, she replied calmly, wiping her muddy hands. I think you're lonely. And tired.
Silence fell. The wind slipped through the trees, suspending time.
He looked away, preparing to vanish. But Aria caught a fold of his cloak. He turned swiftly, and his hood fell away, revealing his face.
She froze.
His crimson eyes, pale skin, sharp and elegant jaw — he was inhumanly beautiful. Tragic. Lost.
He shoved her again, but without real strength. He growled:
— You're mad, human. You know nothing of what I am.
— Then show me, she whispered.
For a moment, he faltered. Then he let out a bitter laugh — deep, melodic, almost painful.
And as he rose into the sky like a great dark raven, he murmured between his fangs:
> Dance with the shadow, let it enfold,
Each step fades where no one grows old.
Life of murmurs, forgotten refrain,
A symphony of nothing shall remain…
He vanished into the night.
Aria, breathless, remained alone in the clearing.
But her heart… was no longer alone.