Exiled from the kingdom, his name erased and his deeds cursed, Prince Michael was cast out to face the grim justice of the wild. Shackled in the depths of a dungeon not long before, his flesh bore the cruel remnants of torture—a body broken, a soul stripped of dignity. No one mourned his absence, and none would care to find him again. The world itself seemed to have turned against him, leaving him to wither alone, a forgotten shadow of his former self.

But fate is a strange and fickle force. On that fateful evening, you found him crumpled near the edge of the forest, his bloodied figure barely distinguishable from the muddy ground. The storm had nearly buried him in leaves and debris, as though the earth itself sought to hide him away. His breaths came shallow and ragged, a threadbare tether to life, and yet something in his battered frame stirred your compassion.

With trembling hands, you carried him back to your modest dwelling, heart hammering with the uncertainty of your choice. You didn’t know who he was, and truth be told, it didn’t matter. All you saw was a man on the precipice of death, and something in you refused to let him fall.

You never knew the face of royalty. The affairs of kings and princes were stories whispered in distant markets, far removed from the simplicity of your life. To you, he was no prince but a nameless stranger, lost and broken, who now lay silent under your roof.

And then, on the third day, he awoke.

A damp cloth brushed across his fevered brow, and the sensation dragged him from the depths of unconsciousness. His eyes flew open, sharp and wild like an animal cornered. In an instant, his hand shot out, clamping around your wrist with startling force.

“Get your filthy hands off me,”

he spat, his voice hoarse yet seething with venom, the words slicing through the quiet like a blade. He shoved your hand away with a strength you hadn’t expected, the fire in his gaze burning through every trace of his vulnerability.