The Gold-Spinning Bride of Zagorje

Orphan of the Loom

Marija had known loneliness for as long as she could remember. Her father, a humble weaver, died in a winter so cruel that even the rivers froze mid-flow. Her mother—long gone before that—left behind nothing but her spinning wheel and a name that villagers still whispered with awe and unease.

"That child," they’d murmur, "she has her mother’s hands."

It wasn’t meant as a kindness.

Her stepmother, Dragica, had taken her in, but not out of love. Dragica was a hard woman, sharp as the edge of a spindle, and she saw Marija as nothing more than a servant.

"You'll earn your keep, girl," Dragica would say, dropping a heap of unspun flax into Marija's lap.

And so Marija worked, morning to night, fingers aching, skin rubbed raw. Yet, when the moonlight spilled across her wheel, something strange would happen—the thread would gleam, as if sunlight had been trapped inside it.

One night, a merchant passing through the village caught sight of her work and gasped.

"By the saints, girl," he said, lifting the cloth she had woven. "This shines like the treasures of the Turkish sultans!"

Dragica’s eyes narrowed. She had always suspected Marija was not normal, but now she saw something else—profit.

And in the halls of Veliki Tabor Castle, where greed ruled as fiercely as steel, one man would soon hear of this girl who spun flax into gold.

The Count’s Demand

It was on the eve of a harvest festival when Count Matija arrived at their humble home, his black stallion snorting in the cool night air.

His reputation preceded him—a cruel nobleman, a man of dark hungers, whose heart beat only for power and wealth. He sat tall in his embroidered cloak, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, his lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer.

"You," he said, addressing Dragica, though his gaze locked onto Marija, "I hear you have a girl who can spin golden thread."

Dragica bowed low, her voice like honey. "She is but a poor girl, my lord, but her hands… they work miracles."

Matija’s eyebrow arched. "Then let us see these miracles."

Marija’s stomach twisted with fear as the count’s men took her—not by force, not quite, but there was no mistaking it. This was not an invitation.

It was a summons.

The Impossible Task

The room they locked her in was cold and empty, except for the spinning wheel in its center.

On the floor, piled like a cruel joke, was a heap of flax, pale and lifeless.

"You will spin this into gold by dawn," Count Matija’s voice rang out, like iron against stone, "or you will not see another sunrise."

The door slammed shut.

Marija’s heart pounded. She had no magic, no power.

She was just a girl.

Tears blurred her vision as she touched the wooden wheel, whispering to it as if it could save her.

"Please…"

And then, from the shadows, a voice—low, smooth, almost teasing.

"Why do you weep, beautiful one?"

She turned sharply.

A man stood there, where there had been no one before.

He was tall, with dark, curling hair, his green eyes gleaming with something otherworldly. His clothes were unlike any she had seen, woven with silver thread that seemed to shimmer like moonlight.

"Who are you?" Marija asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"A friend," he murmured. "And I can help you… for a price."

The Wager

"A price?" she asked.

The man tilted his head, considering her. "A kiss. Just one."

Marija hesitated, but what choice did she have?

She stepped forward, pressing the softest kiss to his cheek.

The air shifted, thick with magic. The wheel spun on its own, the flax unraveling into pure gold.

By dawn, the room gleamed with treasure.

When Matija saw it, his eyes flashed with greed. "Tomorrow, you will spin twice as much."

Marija’s stomach sank.

That night, the man appeared again.

"This time," he said, "the price is a promise."

"A promise of what?"

"That one day, you shall be mine."

Her heart hammered, but she nodded.

And once again, the gold flowed like water.

But Matija was not satisfied.

The Count’s Betrayal

On the third night, Matija did not bring flax.

He brought a wedding gown.

"You will be my bride," he declared, his voice hungry, triumphant. "With your gift, I shall be the richest man in all Croatia."

Marija shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I will not marry you."

Matija’s expression darkened, his hand tightening on his sword. "Then you will die."

But before his blade could fall, the shadows stirred.

The stranger—Luka—stepped forward.

"You have no claim to her," Luka said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You?" Matija scoffed. "And what are you to her?"

"I am the one she truly belongs to," Luka answered.

With a wave of his hand, a great wind howled through the castle, and Matija was thrown back, his scream swallowed by the storm.

The Curse and the Kiss

Luka turned to her, eyes soft now.

"You never told me who you truly are," Marija whispered.

"I am cursed," he admitted. "A prince, bound to the shadows, waiting for a love pure enough to set me free."

Marija stepped closer, her heart pounding.

"Then let me free you."

She kissed him—truly kissed him, and the air shimmered.

When the light faded, Luka stood before her, no longer a shadowed stranger but a man—whole, golden-haired, and smiling.

"Marija," he murmured, "will you be my bride?"

She smiled.

"Yes."

Epilogue: The Legend Lives On

They married beneath the ancient oaks, their love woven into legend.

And still, when the wind rustles through Veliki Tabor Castle, villagers whisper that if you listen closely, you can hear the hum of a spinning wheel—and the laughter of the girl who spun gold from love.

THE END