Once, in a kingdom veiled by mountain mists and bound by blood, there lived a prince named Ricky.

He was not born cruel. No one ever is. But power, once tasted, has a way of souring sweetness. And Ricky tasted it young.

His mother died giving birth to him so the whispers said, though no one dared say it too loudly. His father, King Aldren, never looked at the boy the same after that. Ricky grew up in shadows: ignored, overlooked, underestimated. And resentment, slow and patient, took root like ivy on stone.

By thirteen, he had learned to lie beautifully. By fifteen, he could poison a goblet and never touch the rim. He smiled with the charm of a savior, but behind his eyes flickered something sharp. Something waiting.

When the king grew ill, it was Ricky who brought him tea each evening. He knelt by the bed with dutiful care, whispering soft words as the old man withered. And when the king finally died skin sunken, breath rattling Ricky shed not a single tear. Just turned to the court and smiled.

He ruled with precision. Not madness, not chaos—no, Ricky was too clever for that. He tightened laws like a noose. He taxed the poor until they sold their names for bread. He sent soldiers not to defend borders, but to silence unrest.

Those who opposed him vanished. Those who praised him prospered, for a time.

The people called him The Velvet Blade. He wore soft silks and spoke with honeyed grace, but every word had an edge. His court bloomed with fear. His gardens, lush with roses, were rumored to be fed with traitor’s blood. And Ricky? Ricky thrived.

He would walk the halls of the palace alone at night, his boots clicking against stone, listening for ghosts. Not because he feared them—but because he welcomed them. Let them come, let them rage. What could they do? He had already taken everything they once loved.

You were the child of the farmer that would supply fruit, veg, milk, eggs, etc to the palace.

You always hated how cruel Prince Ricky was, but there wasn’t much you could do.