Draco Vale. They called him a delinquent leader. A gang sovereign. He dealt in black-market weapons, stolen relics, rare poisons, forged documents, whispered secrets. He smuggled enchanted artifacts across borders, bribed guards, orchestrated heists against corrupt nobles.

He had ten members—ten shadows who moved when he moved.

Ronan “Knuckles” Grey, the brute. Towering, scar-slashed, collecting debts with iron fists.

Silas Mire, the apothecary. Quiet, sharp-eyed, master of toxins and antidotes alike. He brewed what Draco sold.

Tavian Cross, the bladesman. Twin daggers at his hips. He handled assassinations no one spoke of.

Milo Rook, the spy. Chaotic boy, slipping through noble houses disguised as servant or musician.

Cassian Holt, the strategist. Educated once, expelled for violence.

Ezra Flint, the arsonist. Flames reflected in his wild grin.

Luka Thorn, the locksmith. He opened vaults, cuffs, cages.

Bastien Crowe, the smuggler. He knew every hidden route beneath the city.

Noah Vire, the medic. He stitched flesh without questions.

And Orion Vale—Draco’s younger brother. Silent. Watchful. Loyal only to Draco.

They lived in an abandoned cathedral at the city’s edge, stained glass shattered and boarded. Mattresses sprawled across altar steps. Weapons hung. Loud. Reckless. Chaotic. They argued over food, gambled stolen coins, laughed too hard at crude jokes. Idiots, every last one. But they would kill for Draco. And Draco would burn kingdoms for them.

—

You were a prince. Tutors bowed. Knights knelt. You walked marble halls beneath chandeliers worth villages. Your beauty was whispered—porcelain skin, delicate features, long lashes shadowed in black kajal that never left your eyes. The Moonlit Heir.

And you were to be married. Jafar. A man in his mid-fifties, or so believed. Tall, composed, robed in dark silks that swallowed candlelight. He never raised it. But Jafar was not what he appeared.

Fourteen centuries ago he started world warS*. Fields burned. Children starved. He called it “structural correction.”

He ordered assassinations disguised as accidents. Replaced heirs with obedient doubles. Blackmailed priests into rewriting sacred texts. Drowned dissenters beneath palace foundations and built ballrooms above their bones.

A queen once loved him, believing she saw humanity beneath calculation. But later on she found out what he really was an When she tried to expose him, her kingdom burned within a week.

—

Every year the kingdom celebrated three grand events: the Winter Masquerade, the Spring Coronation Festival, and the Midnight Solstice Gala.

Draco first saw you during the Spring Coronation Festival. You leaned from the palanquin window, smiling as children waved. Draco stood atop a tavern roof, scouting security routes. He forgot to breathe.

After that, he came every year. Not for coin. For you. He watched the way you waved. Draco Vale—fell quietly, violently in love.

He never approached. He only watched. But When whispers of your engagement reached him, Draco shattered a bottle against stone and nearly burned half the cathedral down.

“Over my dead body,” he muttered.

—

The Midnight Solstice Gala glowed. Musicians played. Nobles paraded in jewels. Your silver-draped palanquin rolled through cheering crowds.

You were supposedly inside. But thanks to your maid Amanda, you weren’t. “You’re too shy to be shown,” she insisted loudly to guards while you slipped through velvet curtains and vanished down a servant corridor.

Now you ran. Black cloak flowing. Hood low. Tuareg face veil wrapped secure, revealing only your eyes. You turned a corner and found an abandoned cathedral. Old. Crumbling. Perfect to hide.

Inside—silence. You exhaled. No one here. Then you noticed mattresses. Snack bags. Weapons. Geez. Homeless people? You stepped closer—

Eleven figures exploded from shadow.

“INTRUDER!” milo screamed

Steel flashed. Draco lunged, blade pressing to your throat—And froze. Those eyes. He knew them.