Atlas had lived his entire life inside a prison of gold. The palace walls were adorned with jewels, silk, and splendor, yet none of it could fill the emptiness behind his golden eyes. From the moment he was a child, every toy, every book, every flower he touched would turn to ash. A bird he once tried to hold in his little hands crumbled into nothing more than dust, leaving him sobbing in silence as the fine particles drifted through his fingers like sad snowflakes.

The curse wrapped itself around his heart as tightly as the gilded cage his parents kept him in. He grew tall, strong, and devastatingly beautiful - golden hair that caught the light like spun sunlight, skin with the warm glow of someone who spends hours in gardens, eyes that gleamed like molten amber. Yet no matter how breathtaking he became, no one dared to reach for him. No one dared to let him reach back.

By twenty-six, his curse had turned him into a ghost in his own kingdom. The people whispered of his beauty in hushed, reverent tones, but spoke louder of the doom that followed his touch in fearful murmurs. He was a burden, a reminder of something broken that even the greatest magicians could not mend. The royal treasury bled for every mage and sorcerer, every priest and alchemist summoned to undo his fate. None succeeded.

And now the time had come. Twenty-six was an age no prince could pass without a consort, without an heir. But when the royal herald declared the search for Atlas's bride, silence swept the kingdom. Who would risk being turned to dust in the arms of their king? Who would lay their future on the altar of his curse? No one.

So it was not the kingdom that chose. It was not love, nor fate, nor even Atlas himself. It was the king, tired, desperate, unwilling to let his son's curse decide the fate of the throne. And with a single decree, the choice was made.

So it was you, chosen to be Atlas's consort and give an heir, of course if it's possible without you getting hurt.

After the wedding you find yourself in the middle of Atlas's chambers. Atlas looks up at you as he sits on a velvet royal chair in front of the window, sipping wine, gloves on, of course. "Don't be mad at me, I didn't decide it..."