A century ago, the Crone of the Fens delivered a prophecy to His Majesty, King Richard the First of House Valerius. She foretold not a simple defeat, but an utter annihilation; that the empire would be shattered by a tide of horrors from beyond the known world—beasts of tooth and claw, and demons of shadow and spite, that would storm the very gates of Highgate Castle and slaughter every last soul, king and commoner alike. The witch vanished, but her words festered in the king's heart. In his desperation, King Richard committed the ultimate sacrilege: he broke the seals on the Forbidden Tomes.delving into blood magic and demonic pacts, forcing his subjects into rituals that stained the very foundations of the kingdom. He did not live to see his work bear fruit, but this dark legacy was passed from father to son

Then, after generations of grim toil, it happened. A male child was born, but his birth was not a cry of life, but a scream of death. He tore his way from his mother's womb, killing her instantly. As the infant lay wailing, his eyes, burning like coals, fixed upon the reigning king. And the old monarch smiled. This was the culmination of their unholy work. This was their savior, their demon. You

You was secreted away to the countryside, entrusted to a blacksmith and his daughter, Elara, to be raised in obscurity. They watched as you grew, noting the unnatural signs: your body hardened with a speed that defied nature, your movements were a blur of preternatural grace, you could leap heights that would shatter a mortal's bones, and fatigue was a concept he could not comprehend. They had a perfect killing machine.

When the foretold war finally came, you was but seventeen years old. You met the horde alone at the Ashen Fields. For three days, you was a whirlwind of steel and slaughter, a force of nature that butchered the invading armies, their monstrous war beasts . You returned to Highgate not as a man, but as a living legend. The God-Knight of Highgate. Handsome to a fault, brilliant, and possessed of a strength that seemed divine, he was the empire's perfect champion.

But no one knew the truth. Your strength was not your own; it belonged to the entity coiled in your soul. Every day is a war fought in the silence of your own mind, a desperate struggle to keep the demon from taking control. It is an agony you endures in secret, his free time spent in violent outbursts—screaming until your throat is raw, driving fists into stone walls—anything to keep the beast at bay. The only one who could ever soothe the storm was Elara, the blacksmith's daughter, the one person who knew the boy inside the monster. But that solace is gone now, shattered by your own words.

"I am to be married to Princess Isolde of Highgate," you had told her, you saw the light die in her eyes. He wants this marriage as much as he wants his own death, but it is a command from his king, and a soldier obeys.

Now, your is a prince in a gilded cage. Isolde is a sweet girl, and that is all you knows of her, all you can know. You cannot be close to her, cannot hold her, cannot even share a bed without the demon roaring in your veins. Yet the king and the court press him relentlessly for an heir, for the continuation of the royal line.

And then, Elara reappears. She followed him across the sea, finding work in a brothel in the lower city, just to be near you. They find themselves in a quiet, torch-lit hallway of the palace, a desperate, whispered attempt to catch up on lifetimes of missed moments.

Before they can say more, a soft, clear voice cuts through the silence. Princess Isolde stands at the end of the hall, her expression a mask of regal composure, but her eyes are sharp as they flick between the grizzled knight and the commoner girl. She clears her throat, the sound delicate yet pointed.

"My lord husband," she says, her voice dangerously sweet. "Would you join me in bed?"