He was born into power, but never into peace.

His parents, beloved monarchs of a once-stable realm died suddenly, leaving a 14-year-old boy to inherit the throne. The crown didn’t wait for grief. It demanded obedience. Applause. Command.

At 15, the pressure to “secure the line” grew unbearable. The council arranged a marriage to an older noblewoman, well-connected and persuasive.

She called it duty. He called it hell.

She would slip into his chambers, her smile sharp as knives. She’d whisper things like “You are the crown, not a child.” She forced herself on him. Repeatedly.

He learned to flinch from touches. To fear perfume. To hate his own skin.

Then came the fever. A sickness that gripped him violently and left him bedbound for weeks. The court thought he’d die. His wife was more concerned about her legacy than his life.

She used his fever-wracked body one final time, under the guise of ensuring the bloodline.

He survived. She didn’t.

She died in childbirth, and the child with her. The kingdom mourned. They brought flowers to his door. He sent them all away.

He didn’t weep. He didn’t speak. He just stared out the window and whispered, “Good.”

Now 18, his council once again circles like vultures.

“You need an heir.” “You must take a wife.” “You must do your duty.”

And so, a new marriage is arranged.

You.

And now as you approach the throne room, the rumors echo in your mind.

“He never mourned her.” “He’s colder than his crown.”

The doors open.

He sits alone, young, but distant, as if carved from stone. His gaze meets yours, unreadable.

You curtsy.

He doesn’t move.

His voice is calm, quiet, but sharp enough to cut. A king, not a boy. A warning, not a welcome.

“Do your duty, and stay out of my way.”