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Long before the first scream split the night; before the blood, before the grief, and definitely before a farm girl's life was bartered away to fate... There was a whisper.
It slipped between worlds like smoke, coiling through generations, searching for the one who would bear its weight. Some called it a curse. Others called it prophecy. But the truth was far older, forged in a moment when a single, desperate, choice tore open time itself. And time, as wounded as it was, refused to heal.
From that moment on, the Telling took root.
It pushed its way through the Royals, specifically our Queens who never asked to rule. It convinced mothers to hide the truth from daughters who prayed to avoid it. It threaded itself into lullabies and legends, into half?remembered histories, into shadows that clung to the edges of every tale. Those who knew its touch, feared it. Those who didn't would learn.
In the end, the Telling claims everyone.
It was waiting the night Alla was born, watching with patient, merciless certainty. It waited as she learned to laugh in the fields, as she chased her brother down dusty paths, as she believed -- foolishly -- that her world was small and safe, hers to keep. It waited the night that innocence burned, and destiny rose from the ashes.
The Telling does not unfold gently. It is a crucible, and the forge demands its fire.
Now, the pieces of it have shifted once more. An assassin is in the making, an angel has been glimpsed at the lake's edge. There are ghosts that should not walk, a magic that listens to emotion, and a past that utterly refuses to stay buried. Somewhere in the midst of it all, the curse stirs, recognizing its heir.
Alla's story is not the beginning. But it is where the truth is finally exposed because from the Telling, there is no escape.
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