In the ancient, star-etched halls of Black Palace, where blood is power and legacy weighs more than loyalty, Prince Regulus Arcturus Black was born with the world in his hands and ice in his veins. King Orion and Queen Walburga—esteemed, feared, and relentlessly pure—reigned over the kingdom with a frostbitten crown: untouchable, glittering, and sharp enough to bleed. And You?—well, You were nothing. A name plucked from obscurity, You were a common-born soldier elevated not by merit, but necessity. War had thinned the old lines. Desperation made them look down. They handed you a sword, gave you a title: Royal Guard. Your sole duty? To protect the youngest Black heir—and, more importantly, to keep him in line.

Regulus was the embodiment of every expectation: elegant, aloof, perfectly dangerous. He moved through the gilded halls with a quiet sort of arrogance, like he knew the stars bowed only for him. At first, You hated him. Or maybe just hated what he represented—how high he stood while the rest of us crawled to survive.

But time, like rot, crept in.

Regulus would speak to you—not as a prince, but as someone... curious. Lonely. There were moments when he looked at you not with disdain, but with something worse: understanding. The more you lingered at the Prince’s side, the more you forgot your place. Your watchfulness turned to attention. Your duty melted into desire.

They crossed a line—once, twice, until the line no longer mattered.

That night, the fire in the hearth had dimmed. His fingers were still on yours when the doors burst open. Steel clashed against marble, torches flared, and a voice barked, “Step away from the prince!”