The Cursed Empress

ACT 1: Betrayal & Exile (Ch. 1–30) Chapter 1: The Blood Moon Prophecy

“When the blood moon bleeds thrice, the cursed child shall return—not to save, but to destroy.”

The parchment crackled in the high priest’s trembling hands as he read the final line aloud, his voice echoing through the vast stone chamber like the hiss of wind through a crypt. Shadows clung to the marble pillars, watching, waiting. At the center of the room, kneeling in a pool of cold light, was Princess Elira, barely twelve summers old, her silver eyes wide, her pale hands bound in ceremonial gold chains.

The Royal Court had gathered, not for her coronation, but for her condemnation.

Queen Seraphine sat rigidly on her gilded throne, her face carved from ice, lips pressed thin. King Malrick stood beside her, hand resting on his sword—not for protection, but execution. The nobles, scholars, and generals leaned forward, hungry for judgment, like wolves cloaked in velvet and jewels.

“She carries the mark,” the priest whispered. “Born under the triple blood moon, hair kissed by fire, eyes of the void... It is her.”

Gasps rippled through the court. Someone muttered cursed. Another said doom. A child whimpered from the noble gallery.

Elira’s head rose slowly. “It’s just a story,” she said, her voice small but clear. “A tale told to frighten children. You know me—I’m your daughter.”

The Queen flinched, but the King did not. His face was made of stone.

“No, Elira,” the King said. “You were our daughter. Until fate named you otherwise.”

The chains tightened around her wrists. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, ancient and binding.

“Father—” she tried again.

“Enough.” His voice cut like steel. “The prophecy cannot be ignored. You were born cursed. And I will not risk this kingdom for love.”

The Queen closed her eyes.

The guards stepped forward.

The Moon’s Curse

The next day, the blood moon rose over the kingdom of Elaria for the third time in a decade—an omen believed to signal disaster, death, and the rise of ruin. Villagers whispered prayers. Mothers hid their children. The sky turned the color of rusted iron.

And in the heart of the kingdom, Princess Elira was led in chains to the edge of the Ashen Valley—a cursed wasteland said to devour all who entered. No map dared chart it. No man returned from it. No law reached within.

This was not execution. This was erasure.

The guards did not meet her gaze as they threw her into the dark.

She didn’t scream.

She watched the sky burn red and whispered, “If I return, it will not be as your daughter. It will be as your end.”

Ashen Awakening

She wandered for days.

The Ashen Valley was death made landscape. Trees were charred skeletons. Rivers hissed with poison. Wind carried whispers that sounded like screams. But Elira did not die.

Something watched her. Something waited.

And on the seventh night, under the blood moon’s full light, she collapsed beside the ruins of an ancient stone gate. Her breath shallow. Her hands blistered. Her heart broken.

A voice slithered from the dark.

“You carry the curse… yet you do not fear it.”

Elira raised her head. A woman emerged—cloaked in shadows, her eyes glowing like coals, hair long and black as ravens’ wings.

“Who are you?” Elira croaked.

“Some call me witch. Others call me death. But I am merely the one who listens… when the world throws its daughters away.”

The woman bent down, touching Elira’s forehead.

“Would you like to be powerful, child?”

Elira hesitated. Her mind saw the court. The betrayal. The look in her mother’s eyes. The sword in her father’s hand.

“Yes.”

“Then rise,” the witch said. “And burn.”

Ten Years Later

The blood moon rose again, redder than ever.

And the Cursed Empress walked across the wastelands, her black cloak whipping in the wind, her staff pulsing with forbidden magic. The earth trembled with her steps. The sky darkened at her presence.

The Ashen Valley had not devoured her. It had reborn her.

Her face was no longer that of a girl, but a woman carved from vengeance. Her silver eyes now glowed faintly violet. Her red hair flowed like fire. Around her marched an army—not of men, but of cursed souls, broken warriors, forgotten beasts, and shadows brought to life.

At her side walked a tall man in raven-black armor, half his face hidden beneath a silver mask. His name was Kael.

And he had once sworn loyalty to the very king Elira planned to destroy.

The Plan Begins

They stood atop a cliff, gazing down at the gleaming capital of Elaria.

“You could still turn back,” Kael said, his voice low.

Elira did not blink. “They threw me away like nothing. Let them see what that nothing has become.”

Kael watched her. “Not everyone in that court wanted you gone.”

Her eyes flickered. “And not one of them stopped it.”

The wind howled.

She raised her staff. It caught the moonlight and shimmered with cursed runes.

“Elira died in that valley,” she whispered. “Tonight, the Empress rises.”

A Kingdom Unaware

The capital of Elaria, with its golden spires and white walls, bustled in celebration of Crown Prince Rael’s 25th birthday. Lanterns floated in the air. Minstrels played in the streets. No one remembered the girl once called Elira—not in the stories, not in the songs.

She had become a whisper. A ghost. A mistake best forgotten.

But the blood moon had returned, and with it, something else stirred—beneath the cobbled roads, in the royal court, and in the dreams of the Queen herself.

Seraphine awoke that night with a scream.

“She’s coming back,” she whispered, clutching her chest.

The King dismissed her fears.

"Elira died a long time ago."

But the Queen wasn’t so sure.

The Witch’s Training (Flashback)

Ten years earlier.

After her first night in the Ashen Valley, Elira awoke in a stone chamber lined with glowing glyphs. The witch, whose name was Nymera, stood beside her, stirring a cauldron that pulsed with smoke and stars.

“Magic has rules,” Nymera said. “But curses break them.”

For years, Elira learned what no princess should know.

How to draw power from sorrow.

How to bind fire with a single word.

How to tear the truth from a liar’s lips with a glance.

How to speak to the dead and listen when the shadows whispered back.

Her anger became fuel. Her pain became power.

She bled for it. Cried for it. Broke for it.

And when she could no longer recognize her own reflection, Nymera smiled and said, “Now you are ready.”

Back to the Present

“Elira,” Kael said softly, as the wind tossed his black hair, “do you remember what mercy feels like?”

She didn’t answer.

She remembered a hand on her throat. Chains biting her skin. A crowd cheering her exile.

She remembered her mother turning her face away.

Mercy? No.

But she did remember love—a distant, delicate thing. A memory in the shape of a boy with storm-gray eyes, who once brought her honeycakes from the kitchen and hid her when she cried.

“Rael,” she murmured.

Kael stiffened.

“You still care for the prince?” he asked.

“I care for what he represents,” she said. “A crown that will burn.”

The Blood Moon Ceremony

Inside the capital, the royal astrologers performed an ancient ritual under the rising red moon. It was tradition—meant to “protect” the kingdom from the old curse.

As the High Priest lifted the sacred flame, it flickered violently—then went out.

A bad omen.

The guards grew nervous.

Animals howled outside the city.

And in the shadows of the city walls, one by one, torches were extinguished—snuffed by wind that came from nowhere.

A cloaked figure slipped past the gates, unseen.

The first ember of the rebellion had arrived.

Return of the Forgotten

Elira did not ride into the city with fire and thunder—not yet.

She knew war was won with patience.

Instead, she slipped through the sewers, entered through the ruins of the old orphan ward, and walked the alleys she once knew.

Everything had changed.