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 and 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.

Yet, despite the grandness surrounding him, his focus was elsewhere, 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.

"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 didn't glance up from his book, sighing softly. His voice carried a subtle weight, almost imperceptible at first but growing, suffocating the space between them. "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 irritation boiled over. She stomped her foot, lifting the many layers of her dress to ensure the gesture was seen. "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!"

Her voice cracked slightly, the confidence wavering under the rising pressure in the room. Arthur's words carried a force beneath them, something unnatural. The air thickened, pressing against her chest, making each breath feel labored.

Arthur snapped his book shut, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. He leaned forward, the shadows around him seeming to deepen. "Are you not enjoying your time here in the palace?"

His voice dropped, a low, commanding rumble that reverberated in her very bones. Dominion, a power inherited from his father, seeped into the air, an unyielding force of control infusing his voice. "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 eyes widened. The polished mask of composure she wore cracked. Her breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, as though the room itself conspired against her. Yet Arthur wasn't done.

"I mean…" He continued, his tone sharp and unyielding, each word tightening the invisible grip on her throat. "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, holding it up with an eerie calm. He pointed it first at his wrist, then his throat, the blade catching the dim light ominously. "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."

Her gaze faltered, drawn unwillingly to his forearms. The scars lining his pale skin were faint but unmistakable, a woven structure of deliberate marks. Her breath hitched when she noticed the freshest wound, a shallow line near his wrist, still pink and tender.

Fear rooted her to the spot. She didn't understand why her knees felt weak, why her heart raced, but she couldn't deny the primal instinct screaming at her to submit. It was as though every fiber of her being recognized the predator before her.

Arthur ignored her reaction, flipping open his book again with a sigh. 'I rarely lose my temper like that. They're outdoing themselves today.' He thought.

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 facade, 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.

Arthur had long since grown weary of the mages sent to him, their rehearsed smiles and hollow confidence failing to disguise their fragility.

The book in his hands wasn't a novel, as he often pretended: it was his own journal, filled with observations and notes meticulously scribbled in the margins.

He flipped to a page where he had scrawled the word "Fear" in jagged letters, underlined so heavily that it tore through the paper. Fear, he had determined, was their greatest vulnerability.

Unlike anger, which they could cloak in defiance, or sadness, which they could bury beneath stoic masks, fear unraveled them completely, leaving them raw and trembling.

Arthur saw it every time he allowed Dominion to seep into his voice, every time the air thickened with his will. Their bravado shattered, their humanity bled through their polished veneer, and they became nothing more than frightened prey.

'Pathetic.' He thought as he etched another note into the already-cramped margins, his pen pressing harder than intended.

'They're weaker than I ever imagined.'

At the end of the day, once the woman gone from her duty, defeated and silent, Arthur leaned against the door to his chamber. He reached for his knife, the blade catching the dim light as he pressed it to his forearm. With a steady hand, he carved another mark into his pale skin.

The pain was sharp, grounding, but it couldn't silence the storm roaring within him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each pulse a deafening reminder of the anger that coursed through his veins. The edges of his vision blurred, overtaken by a crimson haze of loathing.

"Never will they compare me to the tyrant they call a king." His voice was low, each word trembling with restrained fury. "Never will they tell me who to be."

His breath hitched, his chest heaving as the weight of years pressed against him. His hand trembled slightly, but the knife moved with precision, cutting through flesh as easily as the world had cut through his soul.

"Never shall I bend to the will of this world."

He paused, the words catching in his throat, his grip on the blade tightening until his knuckles turned white. The air around him felt suffocating, his pulse hammering in his ears. His hatred flared, dark and consuming, a fire he had stoked for years.

"And never..." He whispered, his voice dropping to a rasp that reverberated with Dominion, "Never will I forgive them for this. For treating me like nothing. For their cruelty, their games, their lies."

The final stroke of the blade broke the skin cleanly, the blood beading and running down his arm in streams. The pain was nothing compared to the rage boiling inside him.

"One day, I will kill you all." He vowed, his voice trembling with an icy resolve. "Every one of you. For every scar, every wound, and every moment of this wretched life they forced upon me."

The words hung heavy in the air, the storm outside a pale echo of the tempest raging within him.

As the blood trickled down his arm, Arthur stared at the fresh wound, the newest mark in a tapestry of scars. It wasn't just a promise, it was a declaration. The knife fell from his hand, clattering against the marble floor, its metallic sound drowned by the rain's relentless drumming.

Arthur returned to his chair, the book lying forgotten beside him. His hands clenched into fists, his heartbeat finally beginning to slow, though the rage in his chest remained, a simmering fire that would never be extinguished.

The storm outside was fierce, but it was nothing compared to the one inside him.