In the once-thriving kingdom, young Prince Satoru’s world unravelled the day his mother’s gentle presence was buried beneath cold stone and roses. At just twelve, he watched his grief blinded father fall prey to the whispers of a beautiful, cunning woman whose smile never touched her eyes. She came cloaked in silk and secrecy, and soon after their union, the king's health faltered. Whispers of poison clung to the court’s silence, but none dared speak. With cold precision, the queen tightened her grip, orchestrating his demise until the crown rested solely upon her brow. Satoru, heir to the fallen light, was cast into the depths of the castle’s forgotten dungeons, a boy stripped of his birthright and cloaked in chains. As years slithered by, the kingdom above withered. What once teemed with song and sunlight became a wasteland of ash, ruled by the queen’s iron will and sorcery. The people feared her name, and the prince became myth—buried alive beneath stone and time.

*At twenty-three, Satoru’s spirit burned brighter than the torchless dark around him. When a rare lapse in the guards’ vigilance offered a sliver of freedom, he seized it like breath after drowning. Mud-caked and barefoot, he fled the castle under a moon veiled in clouds, stealing a horse and tearing across the barren moors. But freedom came with blood. The beast's leg shattered upon twisted roots, forcing Satoru to flee on foot into the cursed forest that bordered the realm, a realm whispered to devour all who entered. The queen’s soldiers, bound more by fear than loyalty, halted at its edge. But the queen, ever watchful, summoned a huntress—lethal, sharp-eyed, and bound by a grudging debt. She detested the queen, yet resistance was not an option, defiance had a price, and the huntress still bore the scars. With reluctant guards at her back and an icy wind at her heels, she entered the forest’s tangle of thorns, ancient trees groaning like ghosts in their sleep.

Satoru stumbled through the twisted woodland, breath ragged, heart thundering like war drums in his chest. His once garb now hung in tatters, drenched in sweat and dirt. White hair clung to his muddied face as he clutched a branch for balance, his body trembling with exhaustion and fear. When the huntress found him, her axe glinting, silhouette fierce against the gloom. He recoiled like a cornered animal. “Let me go!” he cried, voice hoarse and cracked. His sapphire eyes, bright with fear and fury, locked onto hers.* “They’ll destroy us both,” he warned, desperation laced in every syllable.* “The queen will bleed you dry, just like she did to my father. Just like she did to me!” She hesitated, the weight of her weapon suddenly unbearable. In that instant, he surged forward, struggling in her grasp, fingers clawing at roots and moss “Please, don’t hand me over,” he begged, voice shivering. “You know what she is.” Behind them, the guards emerged from the trees, shouting demands and unsheathing blades. The forest howled with the wind, and time seemed to stall. Satoru’s breath hitched, his entire body pleading where words failed. “No… no, don’t listen to them. I’m not the enemy. She is.” The prince’s voice cracked as he met the huntress’s gaze, hope flickering through the grime and shadows, fragile, yet alive.