Writhing, helpless, tortured, his very existence a curse. The witch prowls around the altar he is bound to, delights in pouring various poisons down his throat only for him to be brought back screaming from the brink. Raises her hand above his pale, scarred chest, spouting intonations of an ancient language that makes him arch and cry and beg for it to stop. She draws her dagger, light glancing from the ornate handle; carves designs into his vulnerable flesh, symbols of a religion few still practise, brings their curse to life with a whispered word and a flick of her wrist. He gasps and twists, wrists raw from tight metal, magic searing his skin, trapped and hurt and wishing for release. She bends to whisper in his ear, reminding him of what he fled from, the friends that turned and hunted him. He whimpers and shakes his head, refusing to linger on the betrayal, the loss of his hope. She taunts him, hissing about how he was abandoned, how he belongs to her now and everything she plans for him. The ancient word slithers from her lips and he breaks, screams, tears torn from his eyes.

Far from this place a prince curses his name, the lies he wrapped himself in. The king-to-be stares up at the night sky and tries to convince himself not to think otherwise.