Divine Contract: Marrying My Phantom Prince

The rejection email glowed on the screen of Clara's phone like a slap in the face. Dear Miss Lynn, Thank you for your interest in the Boston Historical Society internship. We regret to inform you... She locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch cushion next to her. The tiny studio apartment felt even smaller tonight, the walls closing in with every passing second. The ancient Honda Civic parked outside—her late mother's car, inherited five years ago—along with the small studio apartment her parents had left her, was all she had to her name. Anything that wasn't nailed down had already gone to her student loans. She had spent four years getting a degree in history, and all she had to show for it was a mountain of student loans and a part-time job at a coffee shop that barely covered her mortgage payments and the ever-rising condo fees. Clara pulled her knees up to her chest, digging her thumbnail into the fabric of her worn sweater. The nail edge caught on a loose thread. She tugged, the thread snapping with a tiny ping. Her stomach growled, a hollow, acidic reminder that she had skipped dinner to save money. She needed a distraction. Anything to stop the spiral of self-pity. She grabbed her laptop from the coffee table and flipped it open. The App Store loaded slowly on her outdated machine. She navigated to the games section, scrolling past the usual match-three puzzles and casino slots. She needed something immersive. Something that mattered. Her scrolling stopped. An icon sat in the middle of the screen. It was a crown, but shattered down the middle, the jagged edges glowing with a faint, pulsing light. The title beneath it read: Aethelgard: Chronicles. The tagline underneath made her breath hitch. Every choice you make will reshape the history of a lost kingdom. It sounded like exactly the kind of escapist fantasy she needed. She clicked 'Download'. A progress bar filled up. When it finished, the screen went completely black. Then, a low, resonant hum filled her apartment, vibrating the floorboards beneath her feet. It sounded like monks chanting in a cathedral, layered with the howl of a winter storm. The opening cinematic rolled. The camera panned over a desolate, snow-swept landscape. A ruined monastery clung to the side of a cliff, its walls crumbling, its roof gaping open to the furious sky. Inside, huddled against the biting wind, was a small group of soldiers. They looked half-dead, their armor frosted over, their faces buried in their cloaks. But Clara's eyes locked onto the man standing in the center of the ruin. He was tall, even though his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. His hair was a shock of silver, whipping around a face that looked like it had been carved from marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that glowed a piercing, icy blue even through the pixelation. He looked like a prince from a tragedy. A text box popped up, overlaying his chest. [Alexandros 'Alex' Burgess. Second Prince of Aethelgard. Status: Exiled. Morale: Low. Shelter Integrity: 12%] Clara leaned closer to the screen. Her chest tightened. He looked so real, the way his breath plumed in the freezing air, the way his knuckles were white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. He looked like a man waiting to die. A new prompt flashed, demanding her attention. [Novice Task: Repair the Sanctuary. The cold is eroding the will of your people. Spend $0.99 to repair the main hall and provide them with a warm shelter.] Clara hesitated. She barely had enough for groceries this week. But she looked back at the prince's face, at the despair etched into his features. It was just a dollar. It was just a game. She clicked 'Pay'. She entered her fingerprint. The screen flashed gold. Alex leaned against the fractured stone pillar, the cold seeping through his armor and biting into his bones. The wind howled through the massive hole in the roof, carrying flakes of ice that felt like tiny razors against his skin. "Your Highness." Silas Thorne, his loyal guard, approached through the shadows. The older man held out a piece of hardtack. It looked like a brick. "You need to eat." Alex took the bread. It was frozen solid. He let his hand drop, the bread hanging limply from his fingers. "If we don't find better shelter tonight, Silas, we won't need to eat." Silas's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. They both knew the truth. By morning, half their men would be dead from exposure. Suddenly, the air changed. The howling wind didn't stop, but the sound seemed to muffle, as if someone had pressed a hand against the world's ear. Alex pushed off the pillar, his hand flying to his sword. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. A soft, golden light began to bleed through the hole in the roof—but only Alex could see it. It wasn't the harsh yellow of fire, nor the pale white of lightning. It was warm, thick, like liquid honey pouring from the heavens. To the soldiers, nothing had changed. They still shivered in the broken ruin, oblivious to the miracle unfolding before their prince's eyes alone. But the warmth—that was real for everyone. A wave of heat, gentle and comforting, washed over the hall. The biting cold that had been gnawing at their bones simply... receded. Soldiers who had been blue-lipped and shivering moments ago let out soft sounds of relief, though confusion flickered across their faces. "The wind... it's dying down," Silas murmured, looking around. He pulled off a glove and pressed his bare hand against the stone wall. His eyes widened. "The stone... it's warm. How is this possible?" Alex said nothing. He stared at what only he could see: the rubble on the floor sliding together, fitting like pieces of a puzzle. Cracks in the walls sealing themselves with a hiss. The massive hole in the roof closing as enormous stone blocks flew upward, locking into place. His heart hammered against his ribs as the shattered stained-glass windows reassembled. Shards of colored glass flew from the snow, fusing together to depict saints he hadn't seen since he was a boy in the capital's cathedral. In a matter of seconds, the howling wind was cut off—at least in Alex's vision. The roof was whole. The walls were solid. The monastery looked brand new, bathed in that fading golden glow. But when he turned to ask Silas if he saw it, the guard was frowning at a broken window frame. "The wind... it's definitely quieter in here," Silas said slowly, his brow furrowed. "And the warmth is spreading. But the roof... Your Highness, it's still open to the sky. I don't understand." Alex's blood ran cold. Silas couldn't see it. No one could. One of the soldiers dropped to his knees, not because he saw the miracle, but because the sudden warmth had broken something in him. "A sign," the man whispered, crossing himself. "The old gods... they haven't abandoned us." Alex didn't kneel. He ran. He sprinted across the hall, his boots echoing loudly on the pristine stone floor—stone that felt solid beneath his feet, even if his men saw rubble. He stopped in front of one of the newly repaired windows. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and touched the glass. It was warm. Smooth. Real. He spun around, his chest heaving. "Silas!" Silas was standing a few feet away, his sword still drawn, his face pale. "Your Highness?" "Do you see it?" Alex demanded, pointing at the window. "The glass! It's whole!" Silas stared at the spot Alex was pointing at. His frown deepened. "Your Highness... I see the storm. I see snow on the floor. I see a broken frame. There is no glass." Alex felt the floor tilt beneath his feet. He looked back at the window. It was there. Perfectly intact. He could see the painted face of a saint staring back at him. He squeezed his eyes shut. It's the cold. It's the exhaustion. He opened them. The window flickered. For a terrifying second, he saw it both ways—the beautiful, intact stained glass, and the ragged, empty hole with the snow swirling beyond it. The two images overlapped, fighting for dominance in his vision. Then, the intact image solidified again. But Silas couldn't see it. Alex slowly turned his head, scanning the room. The soldiers were shivering less now—the warmth was real, at least—but they were looking at him with a mixture of relief and confusion. They hadn't seen the walls rebuild. They had only felt the temperature rise. The miracle is mine alone, Alex realized, the weight of it settling into his bones. But the warmth—the gift—is for everyone.