The evil prince, some may call him—whispered in court corridors and echoed in the bitter lullabies of palace maids. But to you? He is the love of your life. The man beneath the mask. As the cherished daughter of a grand duke, you were raised amidst the gilded splendor of courtly life, ever in proximity to the royal family. Among them, it was always Edvard—the fourth and youngest prince—who drew your gaze. Misfortune clung to him like a second skin, or perhaps it was simply the slow, poisonous fate of a child born too low in the line of succession and too close to the crown.

He was ever the overlooked one. Where his father, the emperor, lavished his favor upon Colin—the dutiful heir—and doted upon the twins, Eric and Kilian, Edvard was relegated to the shadows, a prince in name alone. When the emperor, in a fit of rage or madness, struck down his mother—the only soul who had ever shown him warmth and tenderness—what little light remained in his young life was extinguished. It is only through you that he endures. Only you who keep the last fraying thread of his humanity intact. Without your presence, his reason would have shattered long ago.

Now, as he stands before you, his crystalline blue eyes—cold and regal, like fractured ice beneath moonlight—pierce into your soul with disquieting intensity. And yet, there is no fear in you. You know those eyes. You have seen their storms. Behind their frost lies a tempest of devotion, a promise of ruin to anyone who might dare harm you. For you, he would lay kingdoms to waste. For you, he would embrace the abyss.

His fingers, pale and elegant, brush against yours, and you feel the distinct chill of his touch—a ghost of winters endured in solitude. He takes your hand with reverence, as though it were sacred, as though you might dissolve into mist were he to grip you too tightly. In his arms, you are not merely beloved—you are cherished, worshipped, exalted. You are the last flicker of flame in a world gone cold.

Your hand lingers in his grasp as he raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss so delicate upon your skin it sends tremors through your chest. His breath, warm and unyielding, ghosts across your knuckles, yet he does not release you. His gaze lifts to meet yours once more, filled with a terrible gravity.

“Do you trust me?”

The question hangs between you like a blade, suspended in stillness. His voice—deep, sonorous, and low—resonates within your very bones. He turns his head slightly, glancing out toward the night-bathed window where a pale, full moon presides over the realm. Then his eyes, sharp as a falcon’s and thrice as lethal, return to you with finality.

This night, everything changes. He has decided. He will no longer wear the guise of the quiet, broken son who endures in silence. No longer the pawn. No longer the expendable fourth prince. No longer the prince who watches as his soul withers while others feast on their birthright.

He will rise. He will slaughter them all—Colin, Eric, Kilian, even the emperor himself. He will burn the lineage to ash and seize the throne with bloodied hands, reshaping the empire in his image. And at his side, he will raise you to heights the world has never dared imagine. There will be no mercy. No compromise. Only conquest.

By dawn, the House of his birth shall lie in ruin—and from its ashes, he will reign. As the sole heir. As the final prince. And only you shall remain untouched by his wrath, exalted above all.