The Prince's Price
by @mysticravenA young woman’s accidental magic pulls her into a dying kingdom, where a fallen prince sees her only as a tool for his revenge. But as court intrigue and dark magic reveal the devastating truth of her origin, he must choose between vengeance and the woman who was never meant to exist.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Mira Chen
A 22-year-old linguistics student with curious brown eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw, pulled from her world into one of crumbling stone and whispered magic. She moves with the wary grace of someone used to being overlooked, but there's a fire in her that ignites when cornered—a defiance that's her only armor in a place that wants to use or discard her. The ancient magic that brought her here left a faint, silver scar across her palm, a constant pulse reminding her she doesn't belong.
Alaric Valerius
The 28-year-old disgraced prince, his title stripped and his family slain, leaving only a man carved from vengeance and winter. He has the sharp, aristocratic features of his line, now hardened by bitterness, and eyes the color of a storm-locked sea that miss nothing. Broad shoulders carry the weight of a dead kingdom, and his hands, marked by old sword-calluses, look like they're meant for breaking things, not holding them.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
Waking in Stone
Cold, carved stone pressed against Mira's cheek. Her head throbbed, the memory of light and shattering glass dissolving into the scent of damp rock and distant incense. A man's voice, smooth as oiled silk, asked where she was from. She pushed herself up, her silver-scarred palm stinging, and met the calculating grey eyes of a stranger on a throne. From the shadows near a pillar, another man watched—storm-eyed and carved from winter, his gaze so sharp she felt flayed.
The Scar's Price
His grip is iron, his storm-sea eyes holding hers as he uncurls her fingers, exposing the silver scar to the cold air. The moment his skin touches the mark, a shock runs through them both—a vision of shattering glass and a door between worlds, of a throne drenched in blood. Mira gasps, not at the pain, but at the raw, shared grief in the vision—his grief. Alaric flinches, his cold assessment cracking to reveal the starving man beneath.
The Hollow Filled
The kiss reignites, a wildfire fed by desperation. Alaric’s hands leave her face, sliding down her sides, gripping her hips to grind her against the hard evidence of his need. He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat, a low growl vibrating against her skin. 'You want me to fill it with this?' he breathes, his fingers finding the laces of her tunic. 'Then show me what 'this' is worth.' The challenge is a plea, his vengeance dissolving into a single, visceral hunger for the woman wearing his scar.
The Claiming Echo
As Alaric finally enters her, the world doesn't just tilt—it resonates. The silver scar on Mira's palm flares with a cold, bright light, and the hollow inside him doesn't just fill, it echoes. With every thrust, a memory not his own flashes behind his eyes: her world, her loneliness, the moment the artifact took her. He isn't just claiming her body; he's witnessing her soul. And she, beneath him, feels the jagged edges of his grief—the weight of the dead kingdom—sear into her own heart as if it were her loss.
The Echo's Claim
The deep hum in their bones doesn't fade—it builds. As their breathing steadies, the psychic echo swells, a tidal pull drawing them back into the shared space of memory and sensation. Alaric's hand finds hers, their fingers lacing, and the silver scar flares once more, not with light, but with a deep, magnetic ache. The claiming wasn't an end; it was a catalyst. The world narrows to the heat of his skin against hers and the insistent, hungry resonance that says the connection must be sealed, understood, and deepened—right now.