Cursed Touch

Once upon a time, in the neighboring kingdoms of Velaria and Paloria, there lived a princess and a prince whose love was destined to unite their lands. Princess Isabella of Velaria, with hair like spun gold and eyes as deep and endless as the sea, was beloved for her kindness and wisdom. The scent of roses clung to her robes, a lingering whisper of her presence. Her laughter, like the soft chime of silver bells, carried warmth that melted even the coldest hearts. In Paloria, Prince Bruno was a beacon of strength and honor. His presence was steady, like the reassuring glow of a fire on a winter's night. His deep voice, rich as honey, commanded attention, yet his hands, rough from years of training, held the gentleness of a poet's touch.

Their love was instantaneous, a force as inevitable as the tides meeting the shore. When their eyes met, it was as if the stars had aligned, whispering a secret meant only for them. Their hearts, though from separate lands, beat in harmony, recognizing a bond that had existed long before their first meeting. Conversations stretched deep into the night, words carrying laughter and shared dreams, binding them further with each passing moment. When they danced, it was as if the world around them melted away, the rhythm of their hearts guiding their steps. Their kingdoms rejoiced, seeing in them a promise of unity, a future where peace and prosperity would reign, their love a symbol of something greater than themselves.

But high in the jagged peaks of the mountains, where the wind howled like a mourning spirit, the wicked sorcerer Coloch brooded in the shadows of his desolate fortress. His eyes, burning like embers, flickered with a deep and insatiable hunger for control. Coloch was not always a creature of darkness—once, he had been a scholar, a seeker of wisdom. But long ago, his heart had been shattered by the very love he now sought to destroy. Betrayed and abandoned, he had turned to the arcane, weaving spells of despair and suffering to ensure that no love could rise to power as his had crumbled.

He thrived in the discord between Velaria and Paloria, his magic feeding on the fractures of war and distrust. The whispers of conflict gave him strength, the doubt in men's hearts fueling his sorcery. A union between Isabella and Bruno threatened to heal those wounds, to forge an alliance that would shatter his dominion. He could not allow it.

Fueled by desperation and an old, festering wound, he cast a terrible curse upon them: should they ever touch, they would turn to stone, frozen in time, their love trapped in an eternal stillness. He watched from his dark tower, a cruel satisfaction curling his lips—he would see their love wither, just as his own had been lost to time.

Despite the cruel spell, their love endured. They danced beneath moonlit skies, whispering secrets with eyes alone. Their hands hovered near each other's, aching for what could never be, their longing an unspoken promise. The people of their kingdoms worked tirelessly, scouring the depths of ancient tomes, seeking the wisdom of forgotten sages—but the curse remained unbroken. The flame of hope flickered, until, one fateful evening on the eve of Valentine's Day, a mysterious woman appeared.

She was small and frail, the weight of untold years settled in the lines of her face. Dressed in tattered robes that smelled faintly of lavender and parchment, she carried only a worn leather bag. Her name was Minerva. In a voice like rustling leaves, she offered them a choice.

"If you choose to break the curse," she whispered, her gaze steady, "the world will forget your love. Every memory, every whisper, every moment you have shared—gone, as if it had never been."

Isabella and Bruno stood in silence, their hearts pounding like the distant roll of thunder, their breaths uneven as if the very air had thickened around them. The weight of Minerva's words pressed upon them, heavy and unrelenting. Was love still love if it was erased? If their hearts still knew, did it matter if the world did not? A painful ache settled deep within their chests, an unspoken fear that even if they found each other again, would they still be the same? The idea of losing what they had, of watching their love dissolve like mist at dawn, clawed at their souls. Bruno clenched his fists, his jaw tightening, while Isabella's fingers trembled, brushing absently against the fabric of her gown. The silence stretched between them, fragile and charged, until at last, they met each other's gaze, a final moment of shared understanding before they let fate decide.

With grave understanding, they nodded. They chose freedom over remembrance, trusting that love, true and unyielding, would find a way. Minerva performed the ritual at twilight, weaving ancient magic through the crisp evening air. The earth trembled beneath their feet, the scent of rain rising as an eerie hush fell. A silver light encased them, and then—nothing. The curse had lifted. Their love had vanished from history. And yet, their hearts, unknowingly, still carried its echo.

Life continued. The kingdoms flourished under their separate rule, untouched by the memory of what had been lost. Yet, something lingered—a pull, faint as a whisper, unnameable but impossible to ignore. Far away, Minerva watched from the shadows, her aged hands gripping the worn leather of her bag. She alone remembered what had been sacrificed, the threads of fate she had woven now beyond her reach. The choice she had offered Isabella and Bruno had been a cruel necessity, but she had seen love defy the boundaries of magic before. With quiet resolve, she turned away, vanishing once more into the world, content in the knowledge that even forgotten love could find its way home.

One golden afternoon, as the sun draped its warmth over the land, Isabella wandered through the woods behind the castle. The fragrance of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth filled the air, the world alive with the quiet hum of nature. She hummed a melody she did not recognize, her fingers grazing the leaves as she reached for a cluster of blackberries, plucking them absentmindedly—until a shadow fell across her.

The rustling of leaves stopped. The world stilled. She looked up and met the deep brown eyes of Prince Bruno.

A shiver passed through her, not of fear, but of something deeper, something ancient. She knew this man. She could not say how, but the certainty burned within her like a flame refusing to be snuffed out.

"I would offer you some blackberries," she murmured, her voice laced with wonder, "but you are allergic."

Bruno stilled. His eyes flickered with something unspoken, something stirring just beyond his grasp. Then, slowly, a smile—small at first, then widening—spread across his face. His heart thundered, a rhythm both foreign and familiar.

"How do you know that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with something unnamed, something eternal.

Isabella hesitated, her breath catching. "I don't know," she admitted, shaking her head. "I just... do."

For a moment, they stood there, wrapped in the hush of the woods, the golden light spilling between the trees like liquid memory. Though the world had forgotten, though history had erased their love, something deeper remained. It was not in the pages of books or the whispers of courtly gossip—it was in them, in the marrow of their bones, the beat of their hearts.

Fate had led them back to where they had always belonged.

And so, in a love stronger than magic, deeper than memory, Isabella and Bruno found each other once more—not through recollection, but through the undeniable pull of destiny, proving that true love never truly fades.