It all started on a rainy day. One of many during which Arthur Aethersworn, prince of the Tashran Kingdom, was expected to fulfill his royal duty, to procreate. His singular purpose was to father the next heir to the throne, a task that hung over him like a sword perpetually poised to fall.
The storm outside mirrored his mood, a constant drumming of heavy drops against the towering stained glass windows of his chamber. The glass bore the royal emblem, a white lion with a diamond-shaped mane, gazing downward with an expression of disdain that seemed fitting. It was an imposing work of art meant to inspire awe, but to Arthur, it only served as a reminder of his station, the impossible expectations tied to his name.
He sat in his vast, lavishly decorated room, a prison in all but name, surrounded by gilded furniture and priceless tapestries. His snow-white suit, embroidered with intricate golden patterns, fit him perfectly, emphasizing every regal feature.
The color contrasted starkly with his vivid blue eyes and the pure white of his hair, a trait marking his bloodline.
The outfit was immaculate, as expected of a prince. Yet, despite the grandness surrounding him, his mind was elsewhere, his focus absorbed by the pages of a thick novel. The heavy rain muffled the sounds of the palace beyond his chamber, leaving him in a cocoon of uneasy solitude.
Nearby, a petite woman moved restlessly, her movements sharp and anxious.
She flitted about the room, inspecting one elaborate garment after another before placing them down with exaggerated care. Her high heels clacked against the marble floor, the sound discordant and grating. The shoes did little to mask her awkward gait, walking in them seemed more punishment than privilege.
"Are you not bored?" she asked suddenly, her irritation bubbling to the surface. Her tone was edged with impatience. "Sitting there doing nothing drives me mad. And honestly, I'm sick of trying on these ridiculous dresses when you won't even look at me."
She was one of the countless mages sent by the king to aid his son in producing an heir. Arthur had long since stopped bothering to learn their names. Tomorrow, another would inevitably take her place, wearing the same polished mask of duty.
Arthur sighed without looking up from his book. His voice was soft but tinged with unmistakable dismissal. "Then go and take a bath. Use all the soap you want." He gestured lazily toward the door leading to his private bathing chamber.
Her response was immediate and theatrical. She stomped her foot, lifting the many layers of her dress to ensure the gesture was not lost. "I don't want to take a bath! Am I not beautiful enough for you? Why won't you even look at me? Do you know how much effort I put into preparing for this day? My prince, you are about to disgrace the king!"
Even as her voice rose, her beauty remained unshaken. Her skin was flawless, her health radiant, and her symmetrical, pristine teeth gleamed in a way that would have been mesmerizing under different circumstances. But Arthur saw through the facade, a polished act crafted to perfection.
'You're faking it all, and we both know it. But there's no need to shout.' He thought.
With an audible snap, he closed his book and set it aside, leaning forward as he took a deep breath. His words came slow and cold, cutting through her protest like ice. "Are you not enjoying your time here in the palace? You can do anything you please, as long as you stay away from me. You even get to leave with a royal outfit of your choice. Isn't that better than the alternative of never leaving at all?"
Her practiced composure cracked. Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the carefully arranged muscles of her face slackened, revealing something raw beneath. But Arthur wasn't done.
"I mean..." He continued, his tone sharp and unyielding. "I have hobbies too, but most of them don't leave witnesses. You think anyone would believe you over me? I could end you with a flick of my wrist, and no one would question it."
From beneath his sleeve, he revealed a small, unassuming knife and held it up, first pointing it at his wrist, then his throat. "See? Now do me a favor, sit down, shut up, and stay quiet until sunset. I was enjoying my book, and you've just ruined it. I can't even remember the name of the protagonist anymore."
The woman froze, her anger replaced with something resembling genuine fear. Her eyes flicked to the scars that lined Arthur's forearms, barely visible under the folds of his rolled-up sleeves. Thin, deliberate marks crisscrossed his pale skin, some faded, others still raw.
Her breath hitched when she noticed the freshest wound, a shallow line near his wrist that looked no more than a few days old.
Arthur ignored her reaction, flipping open his book again with a sigh. 'I rarely lose my temper like that. They're outdoing themselves today.'
The rain outside intensified, its rhythmic pounding a relentless reminder of the world beyond his gilded cage.
Arthur often thought of the women sent to him as nothing more than tools, pawns in his father's grand game. Their beauty, while undeniable, was a veneer, a mask that hid their true purpose. They were soldiers of the House of Mages, bred and trained to fulfill a single role: to bear the heir that Arthur could not produce alone.
His mind drifted as he turned another page.
He recalled the first time a woman had entered his chamber. The novelty had been overwhelming, almost unbearable. After years of isolation, the sudden presence of someone new, their scent, their voice, their mere existence, had shattered him. For days, he had been unable to eat, sleep, or think clearly.
The second time had been no easier. He had tried to engage, to connect, but the conversation had felt like a performance. Her words were stiff and rehearsed, her movements calculated. She had recoiled at his touch, and he had recoiled at her artifice.
Now, years later, the routine was as monotonous as it was predictable. Arthur no longer felt anything for the women who entered his room. Instead, he observed them with clinical detachment, recording their behaviors and reactions in his journal. It was his small act of rebellion, his way of reclaiming a fragment of control in a life that was otherwise dictated by his father's will.
Once the woman had retreated to a corner of the room, defeated and silent, Arthur leaned against the door to his chamber. He reached for his knife, carving another mark into his forearm with steady precision. Each cut was a promise, a reminder.
"Never will they compare me to the tyrant they call a king. Never will they tell me who to be. Never shall I bend to the will of this world." He whispered to himself, the words a mantra that kept him grounded.
As the rain continued to fall, Arthur returned to his book and the storm inside him momentarily quelled.