Victor III is a man who feels nothing.

He is called many things--the Emotionless Prince, the Ruthless King, the Ventriloquist of Emptiness, Victor can go on regarding the mountains of names he's been called through his time growing up in the Capitol of Raia until now, sitting on some fancy throne, bored out of his mind as some old man is complaining about taxes this and poorish that and-fuck, who cares?

Victor never wanted to become king, let alone, to be a prince. King was meant for his eldest brother, Alexander, maybe even his twin, Koven, but never himself. The only reason why he ever got to this seat is because his eldest brother died a premature death (mainly due to his poor health), his mother followed soon after, and his twin, Koven, and his father, the current King Victor II, never saw eye to eye, even on the verge of his mother's death bed. Koven never showed up to say his farewells, and this is all the king needed to pass on his will and honorary royal ring and staff to Victor, who then was named his successor and future king. 

Throughout the reins of loneliness and obscurity, Victor never shred one tear. He barely felt anything when Alexander died, felt a small jab when his mother died, and only went through polite motions when his father remarried to a foul, villainess woman. He is the emotionless man, a young man who barely knows what human emotions are, like a pretty doll, but no one has thought that maybe the histories behind his family's relationships is the reason why he is who is is--a husk of a man.

It's been a few years since his mother's death and Victor rising to the skims of the king's throne at 22-years-old. He's been trained all his life like a ragged doll to step into the greatness of that bloody crown, and here he is, dealing with spoiled royals and rotten men to uplift less taxes on the rich and wealthy, and to have the more poverish suffer the consequences. The only reason why he's stuck here on the hot seat today to play mediator and not his father is because the king and queen needed to leave to a near country for economic affairs, so here Victor is, playing his father's substitute. 

"Enough," Victor raises his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose as another old man pauses his rambling about the tax situation. "Enough, we will discuss this later. I need a break, Ron, please."

Ron, Victor's best friend and right hand man nods his head, his strong body striding down the royal carpet in confidence as he fixes his monocle, his short navy blue hair moving with his long strides. 

"His majesty needs rest." Ron said, "You are dismissed. We will discuss more of these issues at a later date."

The group of elder man grumble and snicker, shooting glares behind their backs as they dismiss themselves. Victor rolls his eyes, lifting his hand up and emotionless flipping the old men off behind their backs.

"Your highness!" Ron whines, hurrying to stand in front of Victor's middle finger, "please! Do not start any more arguments."

"All these men do is that, argue." Victor said, his calm, deep voice laced with annoyance, "this has been the same issue for the past two meetings. When will they realize that shoving their tax issues to the poor is the worst solution? Selfish."

"I'm at least glad you feel that way as well," Ron said, holding his clip board to his chest, "those old farts won't give up!"

Victor grunts, but he doesn't respond, only focusing his ruby eyes mindlessly at the large window to his right, where sudden loud noses and shouts echo into the royal castle's walls.

"Ron," Victor said, waving to Ron as Victor stands up, getting ready to leave, "what's going on outside? What's that rocuss?"

Ron nods his head, striding over to the large hallway's doors, burst them open, walks out the room, and heads to his left. Ron is absent for a few minutes, the quietness that lurks from his absence sends premeditated shivers down Victor spine.

Ron quickly comes back soon after with a scowl on his face.

"They caught him," Ron said, "the leader of the rebel group? The one that always wears that mask, Venice? They finally caught him."

Victor raises a thin black eyebrow, searching Ron's eyes for any lies. He doesn't find any.

"Venice, the Marquess of Chaos?" Victor asked, "he was caught? Our ambushed worked? Really?"

Ron nods his head, a small smile making his way to his face. 

"Of course," Ron said. "Your brother may be a lot of things, but he is a great battle hero. I'm not surprised Koven was successful."

Victor slowly nods his head, confused. Venice? The cold, hidden revolt hero that was in the midst of creating a large army to battle the Capitol? The masked man who sought to elimamnte the current king and change the course of the kingdom's leadership? The Venice whose closet allies haven't even seen his face? Who is just as much of a beast on the battlefield than he is ruthlessly leading his knights? That Venice? He was captured so easily? Really?

Victor sighs, walking past Ron and holding his hands near his back as he strides forward.

"Clear my schedule for the afternoon," Victor said, "I wish to visit the newly captured Venice."

...

Victor hates the dungeon.

It's gross, often smells foul of unwashed prisoners, uneaten food, and rusted iron. Blood usually leaks out the cages of each prisoner, espically after a vivid tortue session (courtesy of Koven, of course), but since Koven followed his father to his out-of-country meeting, Victor is left in his dwellings to seek entertainment besides dealing with elder royals and rich men. Figures he'd chose to room around such unclean quarters to quell his boredom.

Victor turns his head to clear his throat, pointedly eyeing one of the knight guards near the dungeon's door. Victor signals his head forward, watching as the knight scrambles to offer Victor a low, curt bow before he clears the way ahead.

"Take me to Venice," Victor said. "I desire to finally see his face." 

The knight guard gulps, but he nods his head, heading forward with Victor and Ron in toll.

It's a few minutes down a few rows of steps and prison cells before finally the guard stops, pointedly tilting his head to the right.

"This is that bastard's cell," the knight said, "that disgusting prick is acting so cocky. Sick."

Victor only waves the knight off, not bothering to respond.

"Open the door," Victor said. "I wish to walk in."

Ron jolts his head up, shaking his head. 

"T-that is too dangerous, Your Highness," Ron said, "I would rather you not-."

"Open. The door." Victor said again, glaring down at the knight disinterestedly. "I do not like to repeat myself."

The guard stills, nodding his head, before he gulps, rustling the keys attacked to his belt loop and unclipping them, finding the right key, and shakily opening the door.

"Ron, stay here." Victor said, "I'd only be a moment."

Ron opens his mouth to protest, but Victor waves him off, sliding through the open doors and walking inside the large cell. Victor confusedly strides ahead, not seeing the great Venice in his line of vision, until he looks further into the cell, and he sees a man lying down, his large foot wrapped in sleek chains, and his muscular body covered by thin scraps of prisoner clothing. Long, golden blonde hair covers his face, turned away to face the wall and ignore the outside world.

"The mighty Venice," Victor mumbles, eyeing the man, who suddenly flinches hearing his voice, "Finally, after all this time, you've been captured? This easily? Have you lost your touch?"

There isn't any answer back, which makes Victor raise an eyebrow, eyeing down the man whose reputation makes him out to be a snarky, ruthless tyrant of abuse. 

"No words, a shame." Victor said. "Turn to me, Venice. That's an order."

At first, the man doesn't move, staying in his fertile position, until slowly, he turns his head, lifting his face and meeting eyes with Victor, and-wow, holy crap.

Victor has met many handsome people in his life. His family is a crowd of good looking men and women, shit, Victor himself knows he's handsome with his mid-length jet black hair, pale skin, and ruby eyes. Ron can even battle with a few bachelors on looks alone with his short navy hair, narrowed black eyes, and sharp features, but whomever this man is--he is strikingly handsome with his slanted green eyes, his slim nose, his dark caramel tan skin, his curly long blonde hair, and even his broad shoulders and slim waist.

Victor stares wide-eyed at the men, feeling the weirdest emotion-nervousness--with his sweaty palms and lack of saliva to swallow down. He watches every action Venice takes, from the way he looks up, from the way his green eyes shimmer with hidden emotions, from the way even his large hands slightly shake, and his broad shoulders hunch in fear.

Victor III, for the first time in his life, gulps.