Syferia has stood strong throughout the years, the generations of rulers the longest from the same family line in all of Northern Ice. Many try and fail to conquer Syferia, but it is no use for her foundation stands strong. A house divided cannot stand; as such Syferia’s collective cohesiveness has often been given credit for it’s unconquerable state. Syferians take pride and honor in their home, defending it no matter the cost. No enemy has ever reached the castle gates.

 

But this is no battle, no war. This is something far beyond the skills of soldiers and the intelligence of their top general strategist. There was no warning, no possibility of preparation, and even if there were, not one Syferian would know what to do. A power they do not believe in has struck down their princess, their heir to the throne. They were all prepared to follow her as a leader, were joyous at the thought, and now they are left with a dying girl and no heir. 

 

The foundation has been cracked.

 

~*~

 

It’s dark when Irene shivers awake. She blinks slowly and lets her eyes adjust before turning to look out her window. She always leaves the curtains pulled back so that she can see the morning sunrise, but today the curtains are closed. For a moment Irene is confused. She would never close the curtains, especially on the night before her birthday…

 

Irene goes to look at her clock, but finds that it is not there. Her birthday. Irene’s mind feels blurry and cluttered with too much information to make any sense of. A heavy feeling of sadness settles over her, yet she does not know the reason why. She feels as though something terrible has happened. Her birthday.

 

Today is not her birthday.

 

Slowly, the hurricane of memories settle and Irene begins to relive the events of yesterday. A wonderful occasion turned tragic. An ice hand seems to grip and squeeze her heart and the air stings her lungs as she gulps in breaths of oxygen. Irene is vaguely aware that she is panicking, but her mind is racing too fast to calm down. Nothing makes sense. She has always been fairly healthy, making sure to eat right and stay active. Her kingdom needed her at her best, so Irene has always done what she can to be in top condition.

 

Then why did she faint? She can remember dancing and then perhaps she became dizzy because everything turned blurry. Perhaps she was merely overexcited, but then why does she feel so awful? And the vision, the apparition of a woman, it must’ve been a dream. It has to be a dream. It’s very possible that she drank too much wine and fell asleep. Irene thinks that that must be it, but an icy pain halts her thoughts. It’s a shock of burning ice piercing her head and distorting her vision. Chills run down her body, ripping all essence of warmth from her flesh.

 

Irene doesn’t realize that she’s crying out until several maids rush into her chambers. She’s curled in on herself, clutching her head, while the maids scatter about desperate to find a way to relieve the princess’s pain. One wraps quilts and furs around Irene’s shaking body, holding her close and rubbing her skin to try and create some heat from forced friction. Several rush back out to fetch doctors and inform the queen and king, while the rest hurriedly rekindle the burned out fire.

 

“Hurry! Bring her to the fire,” the in castle physician says as he rushes into the room.

Irene is coaxed to stand and she stumbles over to the fire where maids guide her down to a hastily made pallet in front of the fireplace. Irene has never felt such bitter cold before, not even when she got lost in the nearby forest during the dead of winter when she was a child. That feeling of numbing chill has never left her memory, has kept her cautious of danger, but this…this intensity of pain has exceeded her realm of understanding. She can only hope for numbness to spread through her body and just put an end to it.

 

The physician prepares a steaming cup of liquid medicine, a new concoction he has stayed up endless nights creating, but Irene is cradling her head into her curled body and no amount of coaxing can pull her from this position. A heavy feeling of hopelessness flushes through the physician. He has seen Irene grow up, he was there when she was born, has treated all her wounds and sickness, and now he can do nothing. His heart aches, but he keeps a strong appearance and does his best to console the shivering girl.

 

Irene grits her teeth and bears the pain with angry determination. She’s always had a competitive streak and this is just another fight to win. No tears fall from her eyes, but they burn as though she is continuously washing icy salt water over them, unable to close her eyes. Just as the agonizing sensation peaks and Irene thinks she can’t take anymore, it flows from her like water breaking through a dam. Her vision rights itself as the last of the pain retreats, leaving only a slight tingling chill. Irene’s breath evens out and she slowly uncurls her body.

 

Exhaustion sets in and all Irene wants to do is relax under the sun, but she sits up at the soft persistence of the physician. It is quiet as a maid helps Irene hold the cup as she presses it to her lips. The warm liquid that slides down is so satisfying that the bitter, sour taste doesn’t even bother her, even if the warmth is short-lived. As she hands the cup back to her physician, she meets his eyes. Irene can’t bring herself to ask what is wrong with her, but the absolute sorrow shimmering in the old man’s eyes tells her enough.

 

A small gasp brings Irene’s attention to the maid assisting the physician. Her eyes are widened in shock and she takes an involuntary step back as she begins to say, “Milady, you’ve—”

“Hush,” the physician cuts her off, “all of you, go. Now,” He says, shooing away the maids.

Irene hesitates at the abrupt dismissal, unsure of what to think. “Sanfar, what…what has happened, is happening to me?” she asks in brittle voice.

 

Physician Sanfar heaves a deep sigh as he lowers himself to sit beside the princess, adjusting the rather thick but fluid green material of his robes. The princess smiles to herself because she can see the frayed edges of the poorly sewed, gold embroidery, small stains, and missing beads that were not properly attached. She remembers the day she gave Sanfar that robe, she was nine and had just finished making her first article of clothing. Irene was so proud even though she did a poor job, but Sanfar couldn’t have been happier to receive such a gift and promised to wear it forever. No matter how many times she offers to get him a new robe, he refuses saying that this robes is very special to his heart.

 

“There is much I do not know, some that I do, but much more that I have contemplated on,” Sanfar says as stares off into the flickering flames. Worry, suspicion, and uncertainty reflect in his eyes and he stays quiet for a minute as though he is in deep thought.

He is not nearly as young as he used to be, but Sanfar has managed to remain rather fit, still broad and has kept a slender shape save for a growing pouch on his stomach from one too many of Marina’s tempting desserts. The angles that once defined his face and earned him the reputation of a heartbreaker have become a bit harsher and skewed by wrinkles, but remain as a testimony.  Even though he has never married, he lives a satisfied life with the royal family and his dear Marina, an angel that was delivered to him as an infant.

 

Irene places a hand on Sanfar’s shoulder to draw him back from whatever worries he became lost in. “Sanfar,” she calls softly.

Sanfar seems to return to himself, but he does not look away from fire even as he grasps Irene’s hand in his own. “My dear, dear princess,” he says, his voice full of sorrow, “you are sick, very sick. This I know, it is obvious, but what I don’t know is with what you are sick with. Not me, not any doctor in the kingdom.”

Fear and confusion begin to stir up in Irene’s chest. “I don’t understand,” she says in a soft voice.

“Neither do I,” there is a sharp edge to his voice telling way to his frustration, “Your parents…they say that it must be a disease, that they are just as lost as we are.”

“But…?” Irene voices the lingering unsaid thought. She can practically feel that Sanfar wants to say more. He has always been an honest and upfront man, but one can never be too careful when speaking of the king and queen.

Sanfar’s voice lowers when he says, “I think they know more than they say.”

 

Irene can see that troubling look swimming in his eyes, like he doesn’t want to believe his own words but knows that he speaks the truth.

“Then…I am not sick?” Irene asks. She isn’t clueless; in fact information in her head is organizing and forming some theories of her own. This is just her way of safely pressing Sanfar to speak more of his contemplations.

Sanfar pauses, trying to gather words to express his thoughts. This will be the first time he has spoken of his doubts out loud.  “You are sick, but not with a sickness of this earth, not one that medicine can fix.”

 

There is a heavy feeling that settles over Irene. Not one of surprise or shock, but one coming from realization that unwanted speculations are confirmed. Somehow in the back of her mind, Irene knows that the woman was not an illusion and that she, whatever she is, plays a role in this “sickness”. The princess stares into the fire, her mind trying to form the woman’s face in the flickering flames. As vivid as her memory is, she can’t quite remember what the woman looked like. The only way she can describe the woman is as an intense and all-powerful presence.

 

Irene looks up and meets Sanfar’s eyes. Curiosity, fear, and, to her surprise, awe reflects back. He seems to be studying her with wonder. It’s an expression she has only seen a few rare times when he has discovered a new specimen or disease. For the first time, the princess shift uncomfortably under the physician’s gaze. A sudden feeling of being examined under a microscope shudders through her before Sanfar breaks away his gaze and clambers to his feet. He silently offers Irene a hand, which she takes, and leads her to the mirror sitting on top of the dresser.

 

Irene expects to see herself in a sickly nature, face gaunt, skin void of color, and eyes sunken, but what stands before her is not even close. She would gasp, but no sound comes from . At first she thinks that it must be a hallucination, but her reflection is unwavering. She looks perfectly healthy, cheeks rosy and face full and soft. The only difference is her eyes. Irene leans in closer and raises a trembling hand in a subconscious attempt to touch. Her pupil is the color of glowing blue ice of which almost decorative swirls of ice flow from, covering the iris and white of her eyes. Every dip and swirl contains a hue of the same glowing blue in her pupil. It’s as beautiful as it is deadly, spreading throughout her eyes and just beginning on her skin with a single swirl dipping out of the corner of her eye.

 

~*~

 

Time looses meaning as Irene floats through the days, sometimes awake and sometimes unconscious for several days in a row. Every time she wakes up, she feels colder, less alive, and she stumbles to the mirror to see that the swirls of blue ice have spread across her skin marring it in unnatural beauty. It seems like every week two or three new doctors and healers from all over the world are operating on her. They diagnose her with unheard of illnesses and prescribe her with bizarre treatments, all which end in failure.

 

Two and a half months of desperate treatments and failure finds the castle cast in silence. All the doctors and healers have declared her a lost case and left with words of condolences. Irene’s body temperature is unnaturally low and she’s moved to a furnace room sweltering in heat, yet shivers still rack her body. There are no mirrors here, and no matter how much she demands it, no mirrors are to be given to her, but she can feel it spreading, see the ends of her hair turning white, and see the swirls that have made their way down her arms and chest.

 

There are no windows in this room. Sanfar is the only person she’s seen since the last doctor gave up. Irene has not seen her mother or father in weeks. Sanfar says they haven’t the strength to see her this way. She doesn’t know why, but doesn’t believe that. For some reason, the princess believes that they cannot face their guilt.  Anger erupts from an unknown source. The king and queen have locked her away and are probably trying to produce a new heir. Sanfar says that the “sickness” is probably affecting her brain.

 

Irene paces in front of the thick wooden door. It feels as though she has be trapped down here for years. There is no day or night, no way of telling time. Irene longs for the sunrise, but the maid who brings her food says it is too cold to go outside, that she only still alive because of the closed off heat in this room. The say it is all for her protection. She doesn’t know why, but Irene doesn’t believe them. She doesn’t believe them about anything. Why should she? Everyone must know by now that this is no “sickness”.

 

In a burst of frustration, Irene slams a fist on the door. It is locked from the outside, for her safety of course, but she feels imprisoned. The solid sound of her fist coming in contact with the thick woods seems to alleviate some of her frustration. With a small cry she does it again, this time noticing how her marks seem to glow brighter with each hit and shake sparks of ice from her skin. Light frost covers the wood where her hand made contact. Irene is confused but her heart races and she begins to bang on the door over and over again, channeling all of her frustrations and anger.

 

Suddenly the door is wrenched open and a maid rushes to calm her. Without thinking, Irene grabs the girl’s arm in a tight grip making her cry out.

“P-Please! Milady, let go!” the maid cries, drawing the attention of others.

Irene looks into the girl’s eyes to see absolute terror. Her face is twisted in fear, seemingly screaming: Monster! Monster! Confusion and hurt settles in as Irene jerks her hand away, releasing the girl. The maid turns and flees, clutching her arm and stifling tears. The princess stands numb as guards approach, weapons drawn, and slams the door back shut. She hears the lock click as well as the scraping sound of a deadbolt lock sliding into place. In front of her, frost and ice cover the door from her previous aggressions. The accumulation is enough that Irene can see a murky, fractured reflection of herself.

 

Her skin is not rosy, but not colorless and gaunt. Swirls and marks of that glowing blue ice cover her face, neck, chest, and shoulders, disappearing beneath her dress. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, she loosens the ties and slides the dress to the floor.  Irene traces the pattern down her skin with the tips of her fingers. It stops a couple of inches above her belly button. Turning, she can see that the marks are beginning to wrap around her body. Time is running out. Sorrow sets in as she pulls her dress back on and crawls into the bed.

 

~*~

 

The castle whispers about the princess, about how she has gone insane, about how it isn’t a sickness – no way that it could be. Those who haven’t seen her imagine nightmares and those who have warp their memory with fear. She attacked a maid. Some say they can hear howling when they walk past that corridor. Her eyes are not human anymore. The kind princess we once knew is dead. There’s only a monster left. Cursed. Cursed. Cursed.

 

The queen doesn’t sleep. Instead she sits at the feet of the new gods and prays. When no sound is able to escape her lips, she sits numb in hopelessness. The winter storms have come earlier and more violent than ever. The Old church has reformed and now the kingdom is beginning to split into two. Occasionally, a believer will make it into the courtyard and yell for the royal family to repent to the old gods and save them all from vast destruction. The king stares silent from above until guards taken them away.

 

The king has never been a religious man, so when he took a wife from the Southern Ice implementing the new gods were no issue to him. His wife was happy and the kingdom was fine and even enjoyed the new gods. Only the Old church became angry, but they were small and nonthreatening. The only bump in the road came from an elder who claimed to be a prophet of the old gods, saying that if they did not repent they would bestow upon them the wrath of the old gods. But at the angry insistence of the queen, the king banished the old woman and outlawed the Old church.

 

This whole mess was forgotten in the passing years, but now much of the kingdom is turning back to the old gods in fear. They offer sacrifices day and night, hoping that their families will be spared. For the first time, the king’s faith has wavered. Memories of his grandmother praying to the old gods fill his mind. He begins to recall all the stories she used to tell him. Then, since his father and mother weren’t very religious, the stories were mere fairytales. Now, the king tries desperately to recall the endings to those stories, the solution the main characters always figured out before total devastation.

 

The sudden presence of the castle’s physician startles the king from his thoughts. Sanfar gazes out the window the king has been standing at. It looks out over a part of the courtyard faced north and is high enough to see passed their mountain to the one beyond.

“I remember standing at this very window as a young boy,” Sanfar says, “My mother would bring me here as the sun was setting, and we would watch, waiting for the light to hit the top of Skadi’s temple. I remember how fascinated I was as the light seemed to fracture into a thousand pieces, spreading across the sky. It seems like I could reach out and touch it, but it would be gone before I could try,” Sanfar gives a soft laugh, “Every time I vowed that that would be the time I grasp Skadi’s light, but every time I became so transfixed with the beauty of it, that by the time I remembered my mission it would be too late. I was never disappointed though, because getting to see something so beautiful was enough.”

 

The king braces himself against the ledge of the window, gazing out at that mountain that once was called the home of Skadi, goddess of winter and the hunt. Sanfar’s story jars a memory of the goddess’s story told to him by his grandmother. It was one of the ones that stuck with him throughout most of his days as a kid and young adult. The king remembers his grandmother calling her “the vengeful Skadi”. She was once of the more prominent old gods in the Northern Ice, for obvious reasons. Her temple was visited routinely back then, and even the king went a couple of times with his grandmother. He remembers only ever thinking that the temple was magical, a place of magic, but that was back when he still believed in such things.

 

“Skadi,” the king whispers her name and as he does, he swears he can see a twinkle from her mountain, but just for second.

Nodding, Sanfar repeats, “Skadi,” and feels as though he has found the answer to a question he has yet to ask. 

 

 

---

 

 

i promise seulgi will appear in the next chapter!

hope you enjoyed the set up so far

this story is more going to be about irene and seugli rather than the curse

just fyi 

all this is like back setting and stuff i guess

altho im not sure how many chapter it'll be yet

hope you enjoyed :)