I Was Meant to Die For the Hero, But the Villain Prince Stole Me Instead

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid smoke of burning homes. Screams echoed between the cottages of Silverwood, a horrifying symphony that would forever be etched into Elara’s memory, however long that might be. Which, by the looks of it, was only a few more seconds.

She scrambled backward, her hands scraping against the rough cobblestones of the market square, her simple healer’s dress torn and stained with dirt. The man cornering her was a monster forged from shadow and iron. His armor was jagged, black as a starless night, and the cruel grin on his face was framed by a matted, greasy beard. He was one of them—a soldier of the Shadow Kingdom. He lifted a heavy, notched axe, the fire from a nearby burning stall glinting along its wicked edge.

This was it. This was the end the village elders had whispered of, the sacrifice needed to ignite the fire in Lian, the hero destined to save them all. Her death would be his call to arms. The thought was a cold, hollow comfort. She squeezed her eyes shut, a final, desperate prayer for Lian on her lips.

The killing blow never landed.

Instead, a sickening crack of bone meeting metal split the air, followed by a grunt of pain. Elara’s eyes flew open. The raider was on the ground, clutching his arm, his axe clattering uselessly on the stones beside him. Standing over him was another figure, taller, broader, and radiating an authority that eclipsed the chaos of the battle.

His armor was different. It was still the color of midnight, but it was sculpted, elegant, and bore the silver crest of the royal house of the Shadow Kingdom—a coiled serpent. A helmet obscured his face, but the sheer force of his presence was suffocating. He moved with a predator’s grace, turning from his downed soldier to face her.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. The world seemed to fall silent, the screams and the crackle of flames fading into a dull roar. He was the enemy, the architect of her people’s suffering, yet he had just saved her life. The contradiction was a dizzying blow.

He raised a gauntleted hand, not to her, but to two other soldiers who had appeared at his side. His voice, when he spoke, was low and commanding, filtered through the metal of his helm but losing none of its power.

“Take her. Alive.”

The command was so contrary to the slaughter surrounding them that Elara could only blink in stunned confusion. Before she could process it, before she could even think to run, rough hands seized her arms, hauling her to her feet. Her last sight was of the dark prince, a motionless silhouette against the inferno that had once been her home, his faceless helmet turned directly toward her. Then a thick, black bag was pulled over her head, and the world dissolved into darkness.

Consciousness returned slowly, not in a rush, but like a tide seeping back to shore. The first thing Elara registered was softness. An impossible, sinking softness beneath her, and the smooth, cool slip of fabric against her skin. It was nothing like the rough wool of her cot or the hard-packed earth of her village.

The air was cool and smelled faintly of something she couldn’t name—like stone after rain and a hint of spice. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she forced them open. The light was dim, casting long, deep shadows that seemed to drink the light. It wasn't daylight, nor was it candlelight. It came from a single, fist-sized crystal glowing with a soft, violet luminescence on a bedside table.

This wasn't the afterlife. The afterlife wouldn't feel so solid, so cold.

Panic, sharp and immediate, seized her chest. She sat up abruptly, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. She wasn't in her own clothes. The torn, dirt-stained dress she’d been wearing was gone, replaced by a simple, long-sleeved gown of dark gray linen. It was clean and soft. Her hands flew over her body. She wasn't hurt. She wasn't bound. Her wrists were free, her ankles untied.

Her eyes darted around the chamber. It was vast. The bed she was in was enormous, carved from a dark, polished wood she didn't recognize. Heavy, black velvet curtains were drawn across what she assumed was a window, blocking out whatever world lay beyond. The walls were made of smooth, black stone that seemed to absorb the faint purple light. Across the room, a small table was set with a silver pitcher, a goblet, and a plate of food: dark bread, cheese, and some kind of cured meat. A basin of water and a clean cloth sat beside it.

A dungeon. A cell. That’s what she had expected. Shackles and starvation. This… this was worse. This was a psychological torment she didn’t understand. The kindness was a weapon, disarming her, making her question everything. Why was she being treated this way? Was it a trick? A prelude to something far more terrible than a simple execution?

Fear, cold and absolute, coiled in her stomach. She was a captive, not a guest, and the gilded cage was far more terrifying than iron bars ever could be. She slid off the bed, her bare feet pressing against a plush, dark rug. The silence of the room was absolute, a heavy blanket that smothered all sound. She was utterly alone, a ghost in a palace of shadows, waiting for her captor to reveal his game.

The heavy silence was broken by the sound of a key turning in a lock. The click was unnervingly loud, echoing off the stone walls. Elara’s heart jumped into her throat, and she flattened herself against the cold wall behind the bed, her eyes fixed on the massive wooden door. It swung inward without a sound, revealing the man from the battle. The prince.

He was no longer in his armor. He wore a simple, high-collared tunic of black wool and dark trousers, the kind of severe, practical clothing that did nothing to soften the hard lines of his body. Without the helmet, she could finally see his face. It was a study in sharp angles and severe beauty—a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a mouth that looked as if it had never formed a smile. His hair was as black as his armor, cut short and neat, and his eyes were a startlingly pale gray, the color of a winter sky. They pinned her in place, assessing her with an unnerving stillness.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The quiet click of the latch sealed them in together. He didn't move toward her, but his presence filled the chamber, shrinking it until she felt she couldn't breathe. This was it. The interrogation. The threats. The reason for her strange, gilded imprisonment.

She forced her chin up. "What do you want?" Her voice was a thin, trembling thing, but she refused to cower.

He didn't answer immediately. His pale eyes swept over her, taking in her bare feet and the borrowed linen gown, before moving to the untouched food on the table. "You haven't eaten." It wasn't a question.

"I'm not hungry."

A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crossed his features. He walked over to the table, his movements economical and precise. He ignored the food and looked back at her. "They said you were the village herbalist."

The statement threw her completely off balance. Of all the things he could have asked, all the military secrets he could have tried to torture out of her, he asked about her profession. "I... yes," she stammered, her defiance faltering in the face of sheer confusion.

"And you were close with Lian," he continued, his voice a low, even baritone that held no discernible emotion. "Friends since childhood."

This was not an interrogation. This was something else. "Why are you asking me this?"

"The prophecies," he said, the word sounding strange in his mouth. "They are quite specific. The hero's path is to be ignited by the loss of his 'guiding star.' By your death." He spoke of it like a historian discussing a dusty, uninteresting text. There was no malice in his tone, only a kind of detached, intellectual curiosity. "I'm interested in the stories that drive men to burn kingdoms. Tell me about him. Tell me about the destiny Silverwood so eagerly placed on his shoulders."

Elara stared at him, speechless. She had expected a monster, a brute consumed by a lust for power and conquest. The man before her was something far more complex and unsettling. He seemed tired, his shoulders carrying a weight that had nothing to do with armor. He wasn't looking at her like a prisoner of war, but like a piece of a puzzle he was trying to solve. The Prince of the Shadow Kingdom, the villain of all her people's stories, was asking about prophecies with the weary air of a scholar who had grown tired of the fairy tale. And in that moment, for the first time, Elara felt a sliver of doubt. The man who had ordered the destruction of her home was not the simple monster she needed him to be.