The morning mist curled thickly over the stone walls of Wessex's great palace, the towers shrouded in the soft grey veil of dawn. The hallways, though bustling with servants preparing for the day, were quieter than usual, as if the very stones of the castle held their breath. The flicker of candlelight cast long shadows across tapestries that depicted glorious battles long past, their vibrant colours now faded and worn.
King Eadric, once a tall and commanding figure with a mane of dark hair streaked with silver, lay in his grand chamber, a place of opulence and decay. His bed, draped in heavy crimson and gold silks, appeared too large for him now, his form small and frail beneath the covers. The scent of sickness lingered in the air—sharp, sour, like decay. His face, once proud and strong, was now pale and sunken, his features drawn with a gauntness that spoke of suffering. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps.
Matilda stood by the king's bedside, her expression unreadable, though her eyes betrayed a deep, sorrowful resignation. Her fair hair, once coiled into an intricate braid, now hung loosely over her shoulders, and the rich velvet gown she wore—deep emerald green, embroidered with gold thread—seemed out of place in the dim, heavy atmosphere of the room. She stood still as a statue, gazing at her brother, his form reduced to something unrecognisable by the curse that had slowly drained his life away.
The room around them was luxurious, yet dismal in its quiet grandeur. Thick tapestries of royal hunts and battles adorned the stone walls, now muted by the darkness. Low flickering torches cast soft glows that only deepened the shadows in the corners, where the soft crackle of a fire in the hearth failed to dispel the chill creeping through the chamber. A single, large window overlooked the sprawling courtyard, but the mist obscured the view, rendering the outside world distant and unreachable.
Outside, the muffled sounds of the courtyard—horses snorting, men shouting—seemed far removed from the stillness within the king's chamber.
The morning dragged on, and as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the misty sky, the king breathed his last. The court waited in suspended silence, the tension thick in the air. Despite the inevitable nature of his passing, no one had dared speak of it until now.
The moment of Eadric's death seemed almost unreal. His body, once strong and full of life, now lay still beneath the golden silks, the dark reality of the curse marking the end of his reign. The heaviness of the silence that followed his last breath was deafening.
Outside the chamber, the bell tolled once, the heavy clang reverberating through the castle and across the fields, its sound reaching even the farthest villages. The court, still gathered in the great hall, knew what the toll meant: the king was dead, and the curse had claimed another life. No king, no ruler, no crown would survive the curse placed upon them.
Matilda felt the weight of the world upon her shoulders, though she remained composed. She moved to her brother's side, her footsteps soft on the cold stone floor. His skin was cool to the touch, the once-strong hands now limp and lifeless. The man who had ruled with such might and ambition was gone, and Wessex—her kingdom, her birthright—was suddenly left vulnerable to forces beyond their control.
The coronation of Aethelred, the King's only son, was an event of great significance, but the atmosphere in the hall felt thick with dread. The great banners of Wessex, once gleaming in the golden light of victory, now hung heavy and lifeless from the rafters. The air was thick with incense, the scent of myrrh and frankincense swirling in the cold air, but no amount of fragrance could mask the fear that clung to the proceedings.
Aethelred, barely more than a boy at the age of twenty, stood at the altar beneath the ancient stone arch, his hands trembling as he accepted the royal crown. The crown, heavy with age and legend, was forged of gold, its dark stones set in a pattern that reflected the weight of the curse it carried. Aethelred's fingers shook as he placed it upon his head, the realisation of his father's fate, and his own, settling like a stone in his gut.
His pale face, framed by short-cropped hair the colour of autumn leaves, was set in an expression of fierce determination, though his wide, brown eyes betrayed the fear that clung to him. The robe of crimson and gold that he wore, once symbolising power, now seemed an ill-fitting garment for one so unprepared for the crown. His shoulders slumped under its weight, and Matilda could see the young man he would become—an unsure ruler, a child made to carry the impossible burdens of kingship.
The courtiers bowed, their faces masked with a mixture of reverence and pity. As Aethelred stood before them, the great hall echoed with murmurs. Everyone knew that this coronation would not be like any before it; this was no celebration of new beginnings, but the marking of an inevitable end.
Later that evening, in a private chamber beyond the noisy celebration, Aethelred stood facing Matilda. His dark eyes were wide, haunted by the gravity of what had just transpired. He held the scepter in his hands, the cold, polished wood somehow symbolising the power that now lay at his feet—and yet, it seemed as though he had no control over it.
Matilda, sitting in a chair by the fire, looked at her younger brother, but her gaze was hard. The firelight flickered in the deep-set hollows of her cheeks, casting an almost ethereal glow on her face. Her pale, silken skin looked stark against the black of her mourning gown, its tight bodice cinched around her waist, the fabric rich and heavy. Her long, dark hair cascaded in soft waves around her shoulders, untamed, much like the turmoil that churned within her.
"Aethelred," she said quietly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt. "You know what must be done."
He looked at her with a mixture of confusion and fear. "What choice do I have, sister? The throne is mine now, but... How do I face it? How do I survive the curse?"
Matilda stood slowly, the weight of the situation sinking in. "You cannot survive it. No king has. The curse will claim you, just as it did our father. In one hundred days, you will be dead, Aethelred."
He staggered back, his face going ashen. "Then... what? What is left for me?"
Matilda's expression softened, but only for a moment. She had come to a decision, and there was no turning back. "I will go in your place, Aethelred. I will marry Edwin, the King of Mercia. This is the only way to secure peace for our people."
The words hit him like a blow. "You? You would marry him, for peace? You are my sister, how could you..."
"I have no choice," she interrupted, her tone steely. "The crown demands sacrifice. And if I must be the pawn in this game to ensure the survival of Wessex, then that is what I will do. It is the only way to buy us time, to protect our people."
Aethelred stood still for a moment, his eyes wide with disbelief. "But you would go to Mercia? You would marry him?" His voice cracked. "You cannot be serious."
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Matilda's gaze hardened, and she turned her face away from him, looking instead at the grand window that overlooked the courtyards below. The castle was still, but she knew the storm that was coming would be anything but.
"I am," she replied quietly. "I will marry Edwin. You will have peace, and I will make sure the kingdom endures, even if I must become something else."
The next morning, the courtyard was filled with movement as Matilda prepared to leave. Servants rushed to prepare the horses and ensure her departure went smoothly, though no one spoke of the sacrifice she was about to make. The sky, a soft shade of grey, seemed to reflect the sorrow hanging over the kingdom.
Aethelred stood at the gates, his gaze locked on his sister. She was dressed for the journey in a cloak of deep forest green, her back straight and regal, even though her heart was heavy. He reached out to her as she stepped into the carriage, his voice choked with emotion.
"I... I don't know if I can do this without you."
Matilda looked at him, her eyes soft with a fleeting sadness. "You must. Wessex must survive, even if we are not the ones to rule it."
The carriage doors closed, and as the wheels began to roll, Matilda felt the weight of her brother's gaze burning into her. Wessex was in turmoil, and the price of its survival was her very soul. As the castle faded into the distance, she knew that the kingdom's fate—and her own—would be shaped by this journey, and by the choice she had made.
The cursed crown had claimed its first victim. And soon, it would come for others.
Matilda sat in the carriage, the worn leather seats creaking beneath her. The soft rhythmic motion of the wheels against the cobblestone road provided little comfort. The carriage, draped in rich velvet, was the same one she had ridden in as a child. She recalled the many journeys to nearby towns, the laughter of the court, the youthful excitement that had filled her days. But now, the carriage felt like a cage, enclosing her in a future she did not choose.
The mist had not lifted, and as she gazed out of the narrow window, the world seemed blurred, obscured by a veil of grey. The familiar landscape of Wessex, its rolling hills, its vast forests, the sprawling fields of gold was nothing more than a distant memory. The castle, with its high towers and warm hearths, was no longer her home. Her destination, Mercia, was a world entirely foreign to her.
The journey was long, and though the coachman kept a steady pace, it felt as though the days stretched endlessly before her. In the hours that passed, her thoughts wandered back to Aethelred. The weight of his grief had been so palpable, it had almost been suffocating. He had seemed a boy in need of protection, not the king he was destined to become. Matilda had seen the fear in his eyes, the fear of losing everything, not just the crown, but his sense of self, his place in the world. She understood his fear, perhaps more deeply than he realised, but there was no room for weakness now. There was only the future of Wessex to consider.
And yet, as the hours wore on, Matilda's resolve began to crack. Her heart twisted at the thought of leaving her brother, of abandoning the kingdom she had always believed would be hers to rule. But the curse was merciless. No one could escape it—not even her. She had made her choice.
As the carriage finally reached the border between Wessex and Mercia, the landscape shifted. The trees, once thick and lush, gave way to fields that stretched endlessly in all directions. The earth here was dry, the grass brittle and brown beneath the midday sun. The very air felt different, charged with the tension of a land on the brink of war.
Mercia had always been a rival kingdom, their borders marked by old conflicts, their people fierce and proud. Matilda had heard the tales, whispers of their King, Edwin. A man of hard features and calculating eyes, a ruler whose reputation for cruelty was as well known as his ambition. She had never met him, but the idea of being sold to such a man filled her with a cold dread. The marriage would be political, not one born of love, and she would be a pawn in a game where her own desires meant little.
The closer she came to the Mercian border, the more palpable the sense of dread became. The roads grew narrower, the settlements more scattered, and the skies above seemed to darken with the weight of an impending storm. There was no turning back now.
The Mercian capital was a stark contrast to the rolling hills and green pastures of Wessex. The towering stone walls of the palace loomed ahead as Matilda's carriage approached, the sheer scale of the building intimidating in its cold, imposing grandeur. The palace was less ornate than Wessex's, its structure utilitarian yet impressive. The grey stone walls stood tall and sharp, reflecting the harshness of the kingdom itself. The air was thick with the scent of smoke from the countless chimneys that billowed from the great hall.
As the carriage passed through the gates, Matilda felt the eyes of the people upon her. They lined the streets, their faces unreadable, their stares cold and calculating. The townspeople wore simple clothes of worn leather and wool, their faces weathered by the harsh climate. No warmth greeted her, no smiles of welcome, only the silent knowledge that she was here not by choice, but by necessity.
The courtyard within the palace walls was filled with soldiers and courtiers, all going about their business. They paid her little mind as she disembarked from the carriage, her feet touching the stone ground for the first time since leaving Wessex. The weight of her decision pressed upon her, a weight that was now shared by the whole kingdom. She was no longer Matilda, Princess of Wessex. She was a mere possession, a tool to secure peace.
Inside the grand hall, the atmosphere was nothing like the warm, welcoming chambers of Wessex. The stone walls were lined with iron sconces, their flames casting sharp, flickering shadows over the cold floor. The large hearth was unlit, and the room felt colder still. The tapestries that adorned the walls were of a darker hue, depicting battles and bloodshed, victories that spoke not of honour, but of conquest.
At the centre of the room, seated on a throne of blackened oak, was King Edwin. His presence was overpowering, even from a distance. His dark hair, tied back in a simple knot, framed a face carved from stone, sharp features, a strong jawline, and eyes that gleamed with cold intelligence. He was a man accustomed to power, and his gaze, when it met Matilda's, was as unwavering as the walls surrounding them.
Matilda's heart pounded in her chest, but she held her head high. She was no fragile maiden, no mere prize to be bartered. She was a queen in her own right, despite what the world might believe.
" Matilda of Wessex," Edwin's voice was smooth, like silk, but beneath it lay an edge, an undeniable command. "I am honoured to finally meet you."
The words were courteous, but there was no warmth in them. The politeness of a ruler masking the sharp edge of a man who got what he wanted, no matter the cost.
Matilda stepped forward, her posture straight, her voice steady as she replied, "Your Majesty. I trust the journey was not an inconvenience."
"Not at all," Edwin said, his lips curling into a thin smile, one that did not reach his eyes. "It is not every day that I receive a queen in exchange for peace. I expect you will make an excellent bride."
Matilda's blood chilled at his words. She forced herself to remain calm, to keep her emotions buried beneath a mask of stoicism. She could not afford to show weakness—not now, not when so much was at stake.
As the day stretched on, Matilda was led through the Mercian court by attendants draped in fine, dark silks. The flickering torchlight seemed to follow her every movement as she passed by, a symbol of the looming darkness that now surrounded her. She was taken to a chamber more ornate than the rest, its walls covered in tapestries of battles and kings long dead. The room was cold, the air thick with the smell of incense, and the large oak table before her was covered in parchments and scrolls.
King Edwin sat at the head of the table, his gaze never leaving her. A scribe stood nearby, ready to ink the final seal on the marriage contract, a document that would bind Matilda to Mercia for the rest of her life, or until her usefulness ended. The terms were simple: a peace treaty, an alliance of kingdoms, in exchange for her marriage to Edwin.
Her hand hovered above the ink, and for a moment, Matilda considered walking away. But the weight of her duty, the responsibility to her people, and the curse that loomed over them all pulled her forward. With a steady hand, she signed the document, sealing her fate.
Matilda had made her choice, but she could already feel the cracks in her resolve. The world was shifting, and the role she had been forced into could either save or destroy her kingdom. But one thing was certain: this was only the beginning. The curse had already claimed its first victims. And the war for the future of the kingdoms had just begun.