The silence in the ice cellar was thick, broken only by the faint crackle of frost against Deric's fevered skin and the slow drip of melting ice somewhere in the shadows.
Druich---Durin, as the family sometimes called him in softer moments—stepped forward first, voice rough with determination.
"Your Grace," he said, eyes fixed on the Priest, "you said there *is* a solution. If there's a solution, there's hope. Even if it seems impossible, there's still a chance—a sliver of one."
The Empress, Drucia, nodded fervently beside him, clutching her husband's arm. "Yes—please, Your Grace. Tell us what it is."
The Priest regarded them for a long moment, then let out a dry, humorless chuckle that echoed off the frozen walls.
"Very well. The Crown Prince requires twenty rounds of full carnal union with a single woman."
He paused as confusion flickered across their faces—puzzled brows, parted lips.
The old man laughed again, softer this time. "Ah, I see. You think it sounds simple. Why call it impossible, then?" His voice dropped, grave and unyielding. "Listen carefully. The energies I spoke of—yin and yang—are not mere metaphors. They are innate magic, the very essence of man and woman. Yang is fire, the blazing force of the male line. Yin is ice, the cool, receptive power of the female. Because this curse stems from excess yang saturating his body, the transfer has strict conditions—and dire consequences."
He raised one gnarled finger after another.
"First: the woman must be fully willing—no coercion, no duty, no pity. Second: she must truly love him, heart and soul; only genuine love can open the channels wide enough for complete transfer. Third—and this is the blade that cuts deepest—six days after the final union, the woman will die. Her yin essence, once fully absorbed, leaves her body hollow. She withers from within. No healing, no reversal."
He spread his hands. "So tell me, among all the maidens of Vallerain—noble or common—who would willingly give her life for a prince who has squandered his own? For a man whose 'mistakes' were not accidents, but choices repeated again and again?"
Horror bloomed on every face.
The Empress pressed a hand to her mouth. The Emperor's shoulders sagged. Durin and Drich exchanged stunned glances.
But Deric…
Deric stared at the frost-covered ceiling, eyes wide and glassy. He knew the Priest spoke truth. What woman would choose death for him? Love him enough to burn out her own life?
A harsh, broken laugh tore from his throat—raw, despairing. It turned into a sob. For the first time in his privileged, careless life, tears spilled freely down his cheeks. Not from fear of death. From regret.
Regret for every warning ignored. Every night wasted in fleeting pleasure. Every promise to himself—"tomorrow I'll change"—postponed because he believed time was endless.
Now time was a noose tightening around his neck.
"I was a fool," he whispered, voice cracking. "I thought… I thought I had forever."
His brothers moved closer. Durin squeezed his shoulder hard; Drich rested a hand on his arm. Neither spoke. There were no words that could reach past that kind of grief.
The Priest watched impassively for a moment longer, then turned to a small table of ice and began scribbling on two sheets of parchment with a quill that never seemed to need ink.
When he finished, he handed both to Deric.
"If, by some miracle, a woman agrees to this sacrifice," the Priest said quietly, "follow these instructions precisely. The first sheet details the rite: how to channel your excess yang into her, how to draw her yin completely without hesitation or mercy—half-measures will kill you both faster. The second lists the preparations: herbs to fortify your origin qi before and after, elixirs to restore strength, rituals to align your meridians. Perform them in exact order."
He gathered his robes and moved toward the heavy door.
"Farewell, Prince Deric. May the gods grant you mercy you have not earned."
The door thudded shut behind him. Moments later, the Priest stepped out of the palace into the night, exhaling a long, weary breath that misted in the cold air.
He had lied.
His master and the first Emperor *had* discovered a true cure—one that did not demand a life in exchange. It was simply difficult to produce. Rare ingredients, precise celestial alignments, forbidden alchemical rites. He had withheld it to force change, to make the prince confront his own ruin.
Whether that gamble would save Vallerain—or doom it—remained to be seen.
Inside the cellar, Deric clutched the parchments to his burning chest, tears freezing on his lashes as the ice around him began, very slowly, to melt.The Priest's deception had roots in ancient wisdom. His master and the first Emperor *had* uncovered a gentler cure—one that spared any woman's life. Yet, for the sake of prevention, they decreed that every male descendant must limit himself to no more than three lovers in a lifetime. Only then could the yang curse remain dormant, a controlled flame rather than a wildfire.
The Priest had dared awaken the hidden danger in Deric's body because time was no longer on Vallerain's side. By natural progression, the illness would have surfaced in another two years—giving the prince at most a week before he burned from the inside out. But prophecy foretold war arriving soon after. If the Crown Prince entered that conflict unchanged—still reckless, still promiscuous—the kingdom would fall.
So the Priest forced the trial early, hoping despair would forge repentance.
That evening, the Emperor issued a public declaration: the prince's dire condition, the yin-yang curse, the sacrificial "cure." A plea went out to every corner of the realm for a willing maiden to step forward.
Deep down, they all knew it was futile.
Deric, too, clung to scraps of hope. He sent private invitations to the women who had once vied for his bed and favor. One by one they came—some tearful, some furious. He laid bare his fate and begged for their aid.
They spat in his face.
"You were an unlucky star all along," one hissed.
"Die alone, as you made us feel," another sneered before fleeing.
Excuses poured out like poison: family obligations, sudden betrothals, fear of the gods' wrath.
He remembered them clawing at each other mere days ago, screaming who loved him most. The hypocrisy burned hotter than his fever.