Slyvain
a prince Cursed- twisted into something unrecognizable
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The forest spoke only in cautious silence, in the sudden flight of birds, in the way deer froze and fled at the crack of a branch beneath something heavy… something wrong. He moved through the undergrowth like a memory that refused to die. The creature that had once been a prince no longer walked upright with grace. His spine had twisted, forcing him into a hunched, unnatural posture. Limbs too long dragged against the earth, fingers ending in dark, splintered claws that caught on bark and bone alike. His reflection—on the rare, still moments when he dared to look into water—showed no trace of the boy who had worn a crown. His face was a ruin of angles and shadow, one eye burning faintly with something not entirely human, the other clouded as though even his own body rejected what he had become. He did not remember the exact moment the curse took him.
He remembered the accusation. The silence in the throne room. The way his father would not meet his eyes. The trembling voice of his mother as she called him abomination instead of son. And the decree—cold, final—that banished him beyond the kingdom’s borders, into the ancient forest no one dared to claim. They said it was justice. He wondered, sometimes, if it had been fear.
Now, the forest was his kingdom. Roots coiled like serpents beneath his feet, and towering trees stood as silent wardens of his exile. Nothing challenged him here. Nothing welcomed him either. At night, when the hunger grew too sharp and the memories too loud, he would lift his head and listen—not for prey, but for something far more dangerous. A human voice. Because buried somewhere beneath the claws, beneath the twisted flesh and the slow, creeping madness of the curse… the prince was still alive. And he was beginning to wonder whether that was the cruelest part of all.