Simone sat in the dimly lit study of his chambers, the faint glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the room. Piles of documents were spread across the desk before him—trade agreements, reports of corruption, military strategies, and proposed policies. His hand moved with mechanical precision, signing papers, making notes, and issuing directives with the ease of someone who had long surpassed the need for deliberation.
He hadn't eaten in weeks. Sleep was a distant memory, something he hadn't experienced since the Emperor's relentless training sessions. At first, he had thought it was a consequence of his father's punishments—denying him rest, food, and reprieve—but now he knew the truth: he no longer needed those things. His body had transcended the limitations of humanity, a cruel byproduct of the power he wielded.
He stared down at his hands, pale and unyielding. They felt cold, even to him. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't summon the warmth he once felt as a human being. His mind had grown sharper than ever, his thoughts calculating and relentless. He could process information faster than any scholar, predict outcomes with unerring accuracy, and see through lies with a single glance. But it came at a cost—a cost he hated more than anything else.
He was no longer human.
The darkness that had become his ally also felt like his prison. He could see and hear everything—every whisper, every movement, every secret hidden in the shadows of the empire. At first, it had overwhelmed him, the flood of information and emotions almost driving him mad. But over time, the pain dulled, the emotions faded, and he stopped feeling anything at all.
Now, the whispers in the darkness were just noise. The betrayals, the schemes, the lies—they no longer hurt him. He simply observed, cataloged, and acted. Where once there had been outrage or sadness, now there was only silence.
He leaned back in his chair, his crimson eyes scanning the room. He didn't need to look at the documents to know their contents; he had memorized them all the moment they were placed before him. His mind processed everything, but his heart felt nothing.
"Is this what you wanted, Father?" he murmured to himself, his voice echoing faintly in the empty room. "A tool with no need for food, rest, or emotion? A weapon to wield your empire's future?"
He clenched his fist, the faint hum of his power resonating in the room. The darkness shifted around him like a living entity, responding to his frustration. It was everywhere, always watching, always listening. There was no escape from it, just as there was no escape from the burden of his existence.
Simone's gaze fell to the window, where the moon hung high in the night sky. It was a reminder of the world outside, a world he could no longer be a part of. He remembered the days at the academy when he had been just another student, blending in with the commoners, laughing with his friends. Those days felt like a dream now, a fleeting illusion he could never return to.
There was a knock at the door. Simone didn't move.
"Your Highness," a servant called softly, "is there anything you require?"
"No," he replied, his voice cold and detached. "Leave me."
The servant hesitated but obeyed, the sound of retreating footsteps fading into the distance.
Simone turned back to his desk, his mind already shifting to the next task. There was no time for reflection, no room for hesitation. The empire needed him to be strong, unyielding, and efficient.
But as he signed another decree, a small part of him—the part that still clung to the boy he used to be—ached for something more.
A life where he could laugh, cry, and feel without the weight of the crown or the suffocating grip of the darkness. A life where he could be human again.
But that life was gone. And Simone had learned to accept it.
He finished the last document for the night, his movements precise and deliberate. The shadows in the room whispered around him, carrying secrets he no longer cared to decipher. As he extinguished the lamp, the darkness enveloped him completely, a silent companion to his endless work.
Simone closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to think. To plan. To rule.
Because that was all he had left.