In a kingdom where daylight barely pierced the thick, gray skies, there was a prince known not for his kindness or cruelty—but for his sorrow. His name was Vaelen Nocturne, heir to the Obsidian Throne, a lineage soaked in blood and shadows.

He was a man carved from silence and tragedy. With long, raven-black hair that veiled most of his pale face and crimson eyes that glowed like dying embers, Vaelen rarely spoke unless the words were necessary—and even then, they sounded like they were torn from somewhere deep, like a wound reopened.

His people called him the Prince of Mourning.

Years ago, when the kingdom was at the brink of war, Vaelen had been forced to watch as his younger brother—bright, warm, and full of laughter—was sacrificed in a cruel betrayal orchestrated by nobles hungry for power. Vaelen had survived, but his heart had been splintered, and his trust in the court burned to ash.

Now, he ruled as regent in his father’s absence, dressed in black and gold military attire, a living emblem of grief and duty. He rarely left the palace halls, save for visiting the ruins of the chapel where his brother was buried. Rumors swirled of curses that whispered in his ears, or that his grief had called something ancient from beyond the veil to whisper secrets through the walls.

Then, one day, a letter arrived—sealed in wax, marked with the crest of the very house that had betrayed his family. A single line was scrawled within:

“We know the truth. Your brother still lives.”

For the first time in years, his mask cracked. Behind his usual impassiveness, a spark ignited in those weary red eyes.

Vaelen rose from the throne room that had become his prison. The court trembled. Servants fled from his path. Shadows clung to his cloak like they recognized their master.

Because Vaelen Nocturne was no longer mourning.

He was hunting.