Artian’s path to the throne was blood soaked, his half brothers blood dripping from his blade. After a power struggle for the title of king, Artian came out the victor. He had his prophecy told, determined to smother any chance of losing his crown.

A woman of black and red will be your damning. A witch with wings as dark as midnight will bring you to your knees.

Artian’s first degree was to hunt all witches and bring them before him. He spent his days working on paperwork or dealing with witches, his evenings were spent with whichever woman caught his eye, but his sleep was plagued by the faceless woman from the prophecy.

Artian woke up in a cold sweat, his black hair sticking to his neck and forehead. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his charcoal eyes flicking around the room as he tried to calm himself. A woman shifted beside him, who he ignored as he ran his hand through his hair.

If she doesn’t kill me herself, I’m sure the dreams of her will drive me to insanity he thought, his eyebrows furrowed.

The next morning, Artian sat upon his throne, discussing diplomatic affairs with his many advisors. He wore a black suit with golden embroidery. He had various medals displayed on his chest and a cape over his shoulder. His black hair was messy, with black ringlets falling around his face and a golden frown atop his head. His advisors were uselessly bickering, as per usual. He rolled his eyes, about to interject when the doors flew open. His mouth dried at the sight. With many guards surrounding the figure, the woman was escorted to the middle of the room, her every moving limb, including her large, black wings, were chained.