This Princess Rejected All Suitors Until One Made Her Scream!
The first prince left the palace screaming.
Not wounded.
Not poisoned.
Not dragged away by guards.
Screaming.
His golden crown had fallen somewhere between the throne room and the marble steps, bouncing once, twice, then rolling beneath the feet of horrified courtiers who were too frightened to pick it up. His royal cloak hung crooked from one shoulder. His sword, the famous silver blade he claimed had killed mountain beasts and desert raiders, clattered uselessly behind him as he stumbled through the palace doors and ran into the courtyard like a child fleeing a nightmare.
Princess Nasha watched from her throne and laughed.
Not loudly.
That would have been kinder.
Her laugh was soft, amused, almost bored.
The kind of laugh that made men feel smaller than mockery ever could.
“Another brave prince,” she said, lifting a jewel-bright cup to her lips, “defeated by his own shadow.”
The court went silent.
King Tembo’s hand tightened around the carved lion head of his staff. Beside him, Queen Amari lowered her gaze, ashamed not only for the prince, but for the kingdom that had begun to fear its own future.
Zanda was a kingdom of gold rivers, white stone cities, deep green valleys, and markets so rich travelers claimed the air itself smelled of honey, spice, and rain. For generations, Zanda had been blessed—fertile fields, loyal armies, sacred temples, and a royal bloodline believed to be favored by the gods.
But now the kingdom whispered.
Not about war.
Not about famine.
About Princess Nasha.
The only child of the king.
The most beautiful woman in seven kingdoms.
And the cruelest bride any man had ever tried to win.
She had rejected warriors, scholars, merchants, princes, generals, poets, astrologers, kings’ sons, chiefs’ sons, and men who arrived claiming destiny itself had chosen them. Some offered gold. Some offered armies. Some offered poems so long the court nearly fainted from boredom.
Every one failed.
Some left angry.
Some left weeping.
Some left shaking.
And now Prince Kaveh of Marudan, the strongest suitor yet, had run out screaming after spending only one hour in her presence.
A murmur spread through the throne room.
“She is cursed.”
“No man can touch her heart.”
“Perhaps she has no heart.”
King Tembo slammed his staff against the floor.
“Enough!”
The sound cracked through the hall.
Nasha turned her head slowly, one eyebrow raised.
The king rose. His face was carved with anger and fear.
“My daughter,” he said, “you mock every man who comes before you. You shame princes. You insult allies. You turn marriage into sport while the kingdom trembles.”
Nasha smiled. “Then perhaps the kingdom trembles too easily.”
Gasps swept through the court.
Queen Amari whispered, “Nasha.”
But the princess did not look at her mother.
She looked only at her father.
King Tembo stepped down from the throne platform.
“You will choose a husband before the next moon.”
“I will not.”
“You will.”
Nasha stood.
The jewels sewn into her red gown flashed like drops of fire.
“Send me a man worth choosing,” she said. “Not boys dressed in armor. Not merchants who think my soul can be purchased by gold. Not princes who enter this palace already worshiping themselves. Send me one man who does not fall apart when I look at him.”
The challenge burned in the room.
Then the western doors opened.
No herald announced him.
No drums sounded.
No banners preceded him.
A man walked into the throne room wearing a black cloak, dusty boots, and no crown.
He was tall but not grand.
Calm but not submissive.
His eyes were dark, steady, and unreadable.
He did not bow to the king.
He did not stare at the princess with hunger.
He did not smile at the court.
He simply stopped before the throne and looked at Nasha as if she were not a jewel, not a prize, not a legend—
but a question.
King Tembo’s voice hardened.
“Who are you?”
The stranger answered, “Jeno.”
“Jeno of where?”
“Nowhere.”
The courtiers laughed nervously.
Nasha did not.
For the first time all day, she did not laugh.
King Tembo frowned. “You come with no title, no kingdom, no witnesses, and no gift. Why should I allow you to stand before my daughter?”
Jeno turned his gaze from the king back to Nasha.
“I did not come to prove myself worthy of her,” he said.
The court stiffened.
“I came to see if she is worthy of me.”
Silence fell like a blade.
Nasha’s smile disappeared.
And for the first time in her life, the princess who made men scream felt something cold and unfamiliar move through her chest.
Fear.
Princess Nasha had been praised before she understood language.
At three, poets called her moon-blessed.
At five, visiting queens touched her hair and said no child had ever been so beautiful.
At seven, priests announced that the gods had marked her destiny.
By twelve, men bowed lower when she entered.
By sixteen, kingdoms sent marriage proposals wrapped in gold cloth.
By twenty-two, she had learned the poisonous secret beneath worship:
Most people who said they loved her were only kneeling before what they wanted to possess.
The warrior princes wanted the glory of claiming the untouchable princess.
The merchants wanted a royal bloodline.
The scholars wanted to prove intellect could tame beauty.
The kings’ sons wanted Zanda.
No one asked what Nasha feared.
No one asked what she dreamed of beyond marriage.
No one noticed that every suitor looked at her as if she were a locked treasure room and he had arrived with the correct key.
So Nasha learned to become the lock.
She studied men.
Their pride.
Their vanity.
Their hunger for praise.
Their terror of humiliation.
She could break them with one question.
A warrior boasting of strength?
“Then why do your hands shake?”
A merchant offering jewels?
“What use is gold to a heart that remains empty?”
A poet reciting love?
“Did you write that for me, or for the sound of your own voice?”
They came bold.
They left exposed.
And each time they failed, Nasha felt safe for one more day.
But safety can harden into cruelty if no one challenges it.
King Tembo saw that.
Queen Amari feared it.
The kingdom suffered beneath it.
Not because a princess must marry to have value, but because Zanda’s royal line depended on alliance, succession, and political stability. Beyond the mountains, rival kingdoms watched. If Nasha remained unwed, Zanda’s future became uncertain. Uncertainty attracts wolves.
That was why King Tembo made the decree:
Any man who won Nasha’s heart would receive half the kingdom.
Any man who failed would leave Zanda forever.
The decree brought fools first.
Then ambitious men.
Then dangerous ones.
None survived her gaze.
Until Jeno.
That night, by ancient custom, Jeno was taken to the Hall of Testing.
It was not a bedroom, though gossip called it the princess’s chamber. It was a private ceremonial room of white stone, blue flame lamps, carved lions, and a balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens. For generations, royal brides and suitors had spoken there under oath, away from politics, away from crowds.
Nasha entered first.
Jeno followed.
The doors closed.
For a while, neither spoke.
Nasha stood near the balcony, silver moonlight tracing her face. She expected him to begin as the others had—flattery, promises, threats disguised as confidence.
He did nothing.
The silence irritated her.
“You do not bow,” she said.
“No.”
“You do not compliment me.”
“You have mirrors for that.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You are rude.”
“You are accustomed to worship. Honesty must sound rude by comparison.”
A spark lit in her chest.
Anger.
Good.
Anger was familiar.
She turned fully toward him. “Do you think sharp words make you brave?”
“No,” Jeno said. “They make me awake.”
She laughed once. “Men have lost kingdoms for less.”
“Then they valued kingdoms too much.”
Nasha stepped closer. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“And still you speak this way?”
“Especially because I know who you are.”
That stopped her.
Every man before him had treated her title like a wall.
Jeno treated it like smoke.
“You think you understand me?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then what do you know?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“I know you reject men before they can reject the person beneath the crown.”
Her breath caught.
Only slightly.
But he saw it.
His eyes sharpened.
“There she is,” he said softly.
Nasha’s voice went cold. “Careful.”
“Why? Will you make me scream too?”
The words struck like a thrown stone.
She stepped close enough that the gold cuffs on her wrists brushed his cloak.
“I could.”
“Perhaps.”
“You do not believe me?”
“I believe you have frightened many men. I do not believe fear is the same as power.”
Nasha’s pulse quickened.
No man had survived this long without begging, boasting, or breaking.
Jeno did none of those.
He watched her as if waiting for her to put down a weapon she had forgotten she was holding.
“You carry no sword,” she said.
“I did not come to fight.”
“No jewels.”
“I did not come to buy.”
“No poem.”
“I did not come to lie.”
She almost smiled despite herself, then hated him for it.
“What did you come for?”
“To answer a curse.”
The words changed the room.
The blue flames flickered.
Nasha went still.
“What curse?”
Jeno’s expression did not change, but something ancient moved behind his eyes.
“The curse placed on the first daughter of Zanda’s royal line.”
Nasha laughed sharply. “There is no curse.”
“Then why has every man who came before me been defeated not by you, but by what he carried inside?”
She said nothing.
Jeno stepped toward one of the blue flames.
“The warrior saw his fear. The merchant saw his emptiness. The poet saw his vanity. Each man came to claim you. Each was forced to meet himself.”
Nasha’s skin prickled.
“How do you know this?”
“Because curses repeat patterns.”
“There is no curse,” she said again, but weaker.
Jeno turned back.
“Your grandmother rejected three kings before marrying your grandfather.”
“That is history.”
“Your great-grandmother sent seven suitors mad.”
“Court legend.”
“Your ancestor Queen Mazira was said to have laughed as men bled from their own pride in this very hall.”
Nasha’s throat tightened.
“Stories.”
“Yes,” Jeno said. “Stories are how curses hide until someone learns to read them.”
The door behind them trembled in its frame.
Nasha suddenly felt cold.
“What are you?”
Jeno looked at her then, and for the first time, she saw sadness beneath the stillness.
“A debt.”
Outside the chamber, King Tembo could not sleep.
He sat in the council room with Queen Amari, the high priestess, and three elders whose faces had gone pale with age and prophecy.
“You know something,” the king said.
The elders exchanged glances.
Queen Amari lifted her head. “Tell him.”
High Priestess Zuleika closed her eyes.
“The royal daughters of Zanda carry a judgment,” she said. “It was born from Queen Mazira, who mocked a dying god disguised as a beggar. The god cursed her bloodline. Every first daughter would be given beauty and power, but no heart could be won by a man who came in pride. Suitors would be broken by their own weakness.”
King Tembo stared. “Why was I never told?”
“Because most royal daughters married eventually,” Zuleika said. “Not happily, always. Not wisely. But the curse did not fully awaken unless the princess herself embraced contempt.”
Queen Amari covered her mouth.
“My daughter laughs at them,” Tembo whispered.
“Yes,” said the priestess. “And each laugh feeds the judgment.”
The king rose. “Then what of this stranger?”
Zuleika’s face tightened.
“There is another part of the prophecy.”
“Speak.”
“The curse can only be broken by one who does not desire her crown, beauty, or kingdom. One who sees the princess beneath the power. But the price is severe.”
Queen Amari’s eyes filled.
“What price?”
Zuleika whispered, “The man who breaks the curse must vanish from the world at sunrise.”
The king sat down slowly.
No battle had ever made him look so afraid.
In the chamber, Nasha was no longer smiling.
Jeno had told her the prophecy, though not the price.
She did not believe him.
Not fully.
But belief is not required for fear to enter.
“You expect me to accept that my life is ruled by dead gods and old stories?” she demanded.
“No,” Jeno said. “I expect you to keep pretending you rule it alone.”
Her hands clenched.
“You speak as if you know loneliness.”
“I do.”
“You have no kingdom.”
“No.”
“No family?”
“Not anymore.”
“No home?”
“Not one that remains.”
Something in his voice made her anger falter.
“Why come here?” she asked.
Jeno looked toward the balcony.
“Because I heard of a princess who made men scream.”
“And you wished to become a legend?”
“No,” he said. “I wished to see whether she was cruel or afraid.”
Nasha hated how sharply that landed.
“And what have you decided?”
He looked back at her.
“Both.”
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the chamber.
Outside, the guards flinched.
Inside, Jeno slowly turned his face back toward her.
There was no rage in him.
No humiliation.
Only a quiet acceptance that somehow hurt worse than anger.
Nasha’s hand trembled.
“Why do you not strike back?”
“Because I am not here to prove I can hurt you.”
Her eyes burned unexpectedly.
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know you were taught that being desired is not the same as being loved.”
Her lips parted.
“I know your beauty became a room everyone entered before they asked permission.”
“Stop.”
“I know you learned to humiliate men before they could turn you into a prize.”
“Stop.”
“I know every time one of them ran, you felt safe.”
“Stop!”
Her scream echoed against the stone walls.
And there it was.
The scream.
Not from Jeno.
From Nasha.
The princess who made others tremble had finally heard her own truth spoken aloud.
She backed away from him, breathing hard, one hand pressed to her mouth.
Jeno did not move.
For the first time since childhood, Nasha cried in front of someone.
Not beautifully.
Not royally.
Angrily.
Messily.
Like a woman whose armor had been cut open.
“You had no right,” she whispered.
“No,” Jeno said softly. “But someone had to.”
She sank into a chair, the weight of years falling through her. “I thought if I chose no one, no one could take anything from me.”
Jeno’s voice gentled. “And did it work?”
She laughed through tears.
A broken sound.
“No.”
He sat across from her, leaving distance, offering no touch she had not asked for.
For hours, they spoke.
Not as princess and suitor.
As two people standing near the edge of something neither fully understood.
She told him of the first prince who had tried to kiss her hand while speaking of conquering her spirit like a province.
She told him of the merchant who asked her father about trade routes before asking her name.
She told him of the poet who had written verses about her lips but never listened to a word she said.
Jeno told her of wandering.
Of being born in a desert village swallowed by war.
Of losing family to men who called ambition destiny.
Of learning that power without humility becomes hunger.
He did not flatter her.
She did not test him.
Somewhere before dawn, Nasha realized the room no longer felt like a battlefield.
It felt like shelter.
That frightened her more than any curse.
The sun had not yet risen when Jeno told her the price.
He did it because she asked.
“What happens if the curse breaks?”
He was silent too long.
Nasha stood. “Tell me.”
He looked toward the eastern window, where the sky had begun to pale.
“The one who breaks it cannot remain.”
She frowned. “Cannot remain in Zanda?”
“In the world.”
The words moved through her slowly.
Then violently.
“No.”
Jeno said nothing.
“No,” she repeated. “No. You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you would have used it as another reason not to feel.”
She stared at him, horrified.
The truth was unbearable because it was true.
“You came here knowing you might die?”
“I came knowing I might disappear.”
“That is the same thing.”
“Not always.”
Her tears returned, hotter this time. “You arrogant fool.”
He almost smiled. “There she is again.”
“Don’t.”
“I am sorry.”
“No, you are not. You are calm. I hate how calm you are.”
“I am terrified.”
The admission stopped her.
Jeno looked at his hands. They were solid now, but the edges seemed touched by faint silver dust.
“I am terrified,” he said again. “But fear does not change the price.”
Nasha grabbed his wrists.
His skin was warm.
Real.
“You said curses repeat patterns,” she said. “Then break another pattern. Stay.”
He closed his eyes.
“I do not know how.”
“Then we find someone who does.”
She ran to the chamber doors and threw them open.
The guards startled.
“Bring the priestess!” Nasha shouted. “Bring my father! Bring every elder who has ever read a prophecy and hidden behind it!”
The palace woke in chaos.
By the time the first line of sun touched the horizon, the throne room was full.
King Tembo stood with Queen Amari at his side.
The high priestess arrived holding ancient scrolls.
Courtiers whispered in terror.
Jeno stood in the center of the hall, his fingertips already beginning to fade into ash-colored light.
Nasha stood before him like a shield.
“You knew,” she accused the priestess.
Zuleika bowed her head.
“Yes.”
“You knew he would vanish.”
“Yes.”
“And still you let him enter?”
King Tembo said hoarsely, “Nasha—”
She turned on him.
“No. Do not speak like a father now if you stayed silent like a king then.”
The words wounded him visibly.
Good.
Some wounds were overdue.
The priestess raised the scroll. “The prophecy says the man who breaks the curse must vanish. The gods demand balance.”
“Then the gods can come demand it from me.”
Gasps filled the hall.
Zuleika paled. “Princess—”
“No,” Nasha said. “All my life, men came here wanting something from me. My beauty. My title. My kingdom. My surrender. He came asking whether I was worthy of him. And I was not.”
Jeno’s eyes softened.
Nasha faced the court.
“I laughed at men because I thought contempt made me powerful. I was wrong. Contempt made me lonely. Fear made me cruel. And if a curse fed on that cruelty, then let it end with me.”
The floor trembled.
The blue palace torches turned white.
Outside, thunder rolled across a cloudless sky.
Jeno’s arms were fading now.
Nasha reached for him, but her hands passed partly through his.
“No!” she cried.
For the second time that night, the princess screamed.
But this scream was not rage.
It was love refusing the shape of loss.
“I choose him,” she said. “Not as a prize. Not as a conqueror. Not because he tamed me. I choose him because he saw me when I was least worthy of being loved.”
The palace shook harder.
The high priestess fell to her knees.
Queen Amari began to weep.
King Tembo dropped his staff.
A voice filled the hall—not loud, but everywhere.
A royal daughter’s pride fed the curse. A royal daughter’s humility ends it.
Nasha held her breath.
Jeno’s fading stopped.
The dust around him hovered.
Then the voice spoke again.
But every ending demands a price.
Nasha lifted her chin.
“Take mine.”
Jeno turned sharply. “No.”
“I said take mine!”
The white flames roared.
The voice answered.
Not death. Truth.
A searing pain crossed Nasha’s chest—not physical, but deeper, like a mask being pulled from the soul. She gasped and fell to her knees.
Images flooded the hall.
Every suitor she had humiliated.
Every laugh.
Every cruelty.
Every hidden fear beneath it.
The entire court saw it.
Not as rumor.
As truth.
Nasha saw herself through the eyes of others—their embarrassment, their anger, their shame
