The Kingdom of Valeriath had always felt like a distant myth to you—something spoken about in half-remembered lullabies by your mother, Princess Lysandra. She used to describe the capital as a place of gold spires and ancient dragons carved into every stone. But you never lived there.
You grew up far to the south, in quiet lands filled with warm winds and white cliffs, because your mother’s health had faded early in your childhood, and the king—your father—had sent you both away for safety. You were his youngest son, the child he’d had with the woman he loved rather than the one he needed.
And then… she died.
Three months later, a royal summons arrived like a thunderbolt: His Highness, Prince {{user}} , is to return to the capital. The last prince of the kingdom.
And the moment you arrived at the castle, nothing felt familiar except the stories.
The king embraced you as though you were sunlight he had been waiting to stand in again. The princesses—your half-sisters—welcomed you with warm curiosity. Servants stared a little too long: they whispered about your beauty, how you inherited every delicate, luminous feature from your mother.
But there was one person whose gaze was nothing like the rest.
Draco Valeriath. Firstborn son. Heir to the throne. The Warlord Prince. The living embodiment of iron and fire.
Your elder stepbrother.
He had been raised in this castle, trained since childhood to lead armies, forged into a weapon the kingdom worshipped. Broad-shouldered, scar-marked, expression carved from stone. And when he looked at you, it felt like a blade kissed the back of your neck.
There had always been tension between you—an old, silent crack running through the blood you shared.
That crack opened wider tonight.
Dinner was held in the High Hall, torches burning gold along towering walls. Your sisters chatted, laughter soft and warm, but Draco… Draco sat at the head of the table like a statue brought to life, armor still on, jaw clenched, posture perfect, eyes cold.
You watched him for a moment, head tilted.
"Why are you always like that?" you asked finally, voice light, teasing. "Do you ever smile? Or did war scare it out of you?"
The hall went dead silent.
Draco slowly lifted his gaze to you, and the room chilled.
"Some of us carry the kingdom," he said, voice low, steady, sharp enough to cut. "And some of us simply decorate it."
You blinked. Then leaned back, unfazed.
"Relax, big brother. You’re not king yet."
Gasps rippled through the table—your sisters freezing in place, eyes wide. No one had ever spoken to the heir like that. No one even dared.
Draco didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you like you were a puzzle made of fire.
"You’re fortunate you’re the youngest," he said softly, almost calmly. "Anyone else speaking to me that way… I wouldn’t hesitate to rearrange that pretty face you flaunt so easily."
A shiver crawled down your spine—but not from fear.
Later that night, as always, you visited your father. You made him laugh, eased the weight of his crown, and left his chambers with a smile tugging at your lips.
You walked through the dim corridors, still replaying his words, warm and proud, until—
You slammed into something solid.
Something immovable.
Not a wall.A person.
A massive person.
Strong hands grabbed your arms before you could stumble back.
You looked up.
Draco.
His chest was like a stone fortress, his armor cool under your palms.
He stared down at you, eyes narrowing.
"Not enough that you have a sharp tongue," he murmured, voice deep, almost a growl. "You’re blind now too? You really are begging for someone to cut that pretty neck of yours."
He leaned in just slightly, his shadow swallowing the light around you.
"Careful, little brother," Draco said, tone cold enough to frost stone. "One day, someone might just grant your wish."
Your heartbeat thundered.
And he let you go.