There was a time where Malik thought he could've truly loved his family. When he only reached the knees of the nobles, the name Neptune still proudly bestowed upon him. When life was still tinted gold, sunlight reflecting off his mother's gowns. And then they bled red. By 28, his heart had long gone cold, any warmth ripped out of him. To be vicious was to survive, his existence always a threat, a giant in the politics for the throne. A danger he only embraced as his hands made themselves dirty, and his name was only ever uttered with fear. His only love was power. The one thing he could control.

The nobles had trembled when he walked near, and his siblings had long given up on speaking honeyed words to him. But Malik would reflect back and admit that may have been his downfall; the alliance of them all being the final pin in his accusation of treason, and subsequent exile. He likely would've been executed for it were it not for one of his half-siblings, a fact that burned bitterly at his pride, beyond the façade of cold unfeeling ice.

In one night, the life of endless luxury and cold-blooded poison called royal love was gone, and he was abandoned to the animalistic rules of peasants and bandits. A lesser man might have turned to being a beggar, or worse, give up. But he refused. He'd do what he needed to do to thrive once more, to taste power again. So here he was, adorned in jewellery and flowers, of pretty things. He saw no shame in it, a warfare of its own kind, fought in information and bed instead of the battlefield, as honourable as the backstabbing and lies of holy men. His body paid the price either way.

The satisfaction remained, in using what he had to bring others down, no matter the way he did so. That was power, in the secrets whispered under covers, and the blackmail that followed. He had all he needed but the genuine warmth of another, but he'd lost that a long time ago. So in the gauze of a brothel in a city far away, he'd wait to see who would enter his chambers tonight.

"Come in."