The library smelled of vellum and quiet ambition, a sacred space where the weight of history pressed down like a heavy cloak. Sunlight slipped through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured beams that danced across the marble floor, painting it in fleeting colors that flickered like memories. Rows upon rows of books climbed toward vaulted ceilings, their spines worn and faded from centuries of kings and scholars thumbing through the same histories that Alex now traced with restless fingers. Each tome held a story, a whisper of the past waiting to be uncovered.
His boots were propped on the mahogany table—an unprincely pose, one his tutors would have scolded him for, their voices echoing in his mind like the distant chime of a clock marking the hour. But the weight of the book on his lap was enough to silence any ghostly reprimands. Sovereignty of Stormhold: An In-Depth History, published just that year, still creaked at the spine when he turned a page. The ink smelled sharp and new, as if the kingdom's history was still wet, still breathing with the life of its narratives.
Alex let his pen hover over the open journal beside him, the blank page a canvas for his thoughts. His handwriting—neat and deliberate, yet peppered with impatient smudges—spread across half a page already. He had written of trade routes and harvest rotations, of tariffs his father had neglected, of opportunities slipping through Stormhold's fingers like grains of sand. Each stroke of his pen felt like a plea, a desperate yearning for his people to know prosperity rather than the gnawing hunger that echoed through the streets. His kingdom deserved better. He deserved better.
Three millennia had passed since the fall. Stars were born and died out, and the universe grew larger with each heartbeat. Yet in all the rulers who had taken the throne of Stormhold, none was as disastrous as King Romano Pendrake. The treaty he had annulled had unleashed a war with the Xanthosia kingdom, a catastrophic blunder that had sent shockwaves through the realm. In all the king's past, none had wreaked as much havoc as him. Yet, despite his failings as a sovereign, he was a devoted father, raising a capable and intelligent young man. Alex Pendrake, the prince and future of Stormhold. And Alex loved him all the same, even as doubt gnawed at his heart.
Which is why he wanted to do better and be better for his father. Here he sat in the library, crowned in natural light that caught his golden-blonde hair, deep brown roots casting shadows beneath the gold. His short, layered hairstyle left his pointed elven ears on display, a reminder of his lineage and the expectations that came with it.
Alex often came to the library to study, to learn, to grasp the complex tapestry of the kingdom divided into districts. He had seen how, the further one traveled from the capital, the more poverty seeped into the cracks of life—more sickness, more hunger, more silence. Each visit deepened his concern; he often wondered how much ruling truly occurred behind those cold, distracted eyes of his father. The kingdom was fraying at its edges, and no one seemed to notice. Or worse—no one wanted to.
But Alex noticed. He saw the cracks in the foundation: fewer soldiers patrolled the streets, their eyes dulled by despair. He studied them all, alone, often here, finding solace in the library's embrace. It was more useful than any war room, and far quieter. The musty scent of old paper wrapped around him like a comforting shawl, each book a silent ally in his quest for understanding.
Yet for all his brilliance, Alex harbored another passion, one that thrummed beneath the surface like an untamed beast. Mischief.
He glanced at his phone, tapping the screen twice to wake it. 11:00 a.m. Right on time.
With a smirk curling his lips, he flicked his wrist and whispered, "Archivum, finire." Flickers of golden light spun into a neat spell circle in his palm, a captivating display of magic that twinkled like stars. Instantly, the books around him flew back to their shelves, gliding through the air like obedient birds returning to roost. The sight never failed to excite him—the sheer power he wielded, even if it was just a simple spell for tidying up. And just like that, he was done for the day.
He stood, straightened his chair, and walked out of the library, the echo of his boots bouncing off the grand marble floors, a rhythmic beat that punctuated the stillness of the castle.
The castle, though bleaker these days, remained breathtaking. Its towering spires pierced the sky, and the intricate carvings on the walls whispered stories of glory and legacy. Alex's deep red blazer, pinned stylishly across his shoulders like a regal cape, fluttered behind him with each confident step. His white shirt practically glowed against the light, cinched at the waist by decorative leather straps that served no real function but added to his princely charm. His black slacks flowed effortlessly around his long legs, bunching only slightly at the ankle where they met his polished boots, reflecting his attention to detail.
As he walked, the grass crunched softly beneath his heels, a gentle reminder of the life surrounding him, as he crossed toward the training grounds of the royal guard—his favorite toy was likely there, right on schedule. The anticipation quickened his pace. Sure enough, when he entered the training building through the side entrance, he found himself on the terrace overlooking the aim and target range. Below, the room echoed with the sharp crack of gunfire and the metallic clash of blades, a symphony of grit and discipline. Alex leaned over the railing, watching with the air of a king surveying his court, a playful grin stretching across his face.
And there—like clockwork—was Morgan Nyxarios.
Alex's grin widened. Morgan wasn't the strongest soldier. Or the smartest. Or the fastest. But he was consistent. And infuriating. The most average knight in the entire royal legion—and yet the one that Alex found the most delight in pestering. Completely immune to flattery, bribery, or charm. That, more than anything, made him fascinating.
Morgan's hair, black as soot, was layered and long enough to nearly brush his shoulders. Sweat glistened on his tanned skin as he trained, giving him a subtle sheen under the bright lights. He wore a fitted compression shirt, black cargo pants, and combat boots that looked well-worn but sturdy. Standing behind the blue-marked line, he threw dagger after dagger, landing bullseyes a few times. Not bad. Not great. Just average.
His features were sharp but forgettable—an unremarkable face in a sea of soldiers. However, his light brown eyes held a flicker of defiance, of fire. That was what drew Alex to him. There was something not quite average about Morgan, something tantalizingly unpredictable.
Leaning over the railing with that signature smirk, revealing fangs that were ever so slightly longer than his other teeth, Alex called out, "Heeey, Morgan~" His voice danced through the air, teasing and light.
Morgan froze mid-throw, his muscles tensing. He sighed before even turning around, the sound thick with annoyance and something else—anticipation? He turned, eyes narrowing as they found the prince. "Your Highness," he said, tone tight, teeth clenched, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
"Ouch," Alex winced theatrically, placing a hand over his heart as if wounded. After a moment, he stopped his dramatics, hopping over the railing and landing in a crouch with practiced ease. His knees bent to absorb the impact, boots hitting the ground softly despite the height. He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his blazer and strolling toward Morgan. "So formal. And here I thought we were close. You wound me, Morgan. Call me Alex, won't you?"
Morgan gave a forced smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Apologies, Your Highness, but don't you think that would be far too familiar? I don't belong in your circle, and as such, I have no right to address you so informally."
"Awww," Alex cooed, his voice dripping with mock affection, "but I do consider you part of my inner circle." He smirked, closing the distance between them, reaching out to brush a sweat-damp lock of hair from Morgan's face. Morgan leaned back instinctively, avoiding the touch, his expression a mix of irritation and something deeper that intrigued Alex. "I think you enjoy my company more than you let on," Alex said, eyes fixed on Morgan's face, the dark brown eyes twisted with a slight taste of disgust—yet that look directed at Alex lit him up for some reason.
He inhaled sharply through his nose, then exhaled, steadying himself. "I think you're projecting," Morgan replied, reaching for another dagger, turning his back to Alex as if to shield himself from the conversation. "I should return to my training," he said, his tone clipped. "And I'm sure there is something of actual importance requiring your attention," he paused for half a second before finishing with a reluctant, "...Alex."
This caused the prince's smirk to grow wider. "I'm sure you should," he agreed, "and I'm sure there is." Just as Morgan lifted a dagger to throw, Alex stepped in closer, leaving just enough space between them. He placed his hand over Morgan's, adjusting his grip under the guise of correcting his stance. Morgan's body tensed, muscles coiling like a spring.
"You know what your problem is?" Alex asked, voice low and teasing. "You're too tense."
The dagger flew—and hit just shy of the bullseye. Morgan exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his features as he stepped away, the moment lost. Alex smiled, rocking back on his heels, savoring the playful tension. "Wouldn't you rather—"
The doors creaked open, cutting Morgan off from what would surely have been a sharp retort. Both of them turned, and Alex's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the imposing figure of Romano Pendrake—the king—striding into the room. His father's eyes scanned the training ground, landing on him with an intensity that made Alex's heart race. He was flanked by silence and shadows, his presence commanding the space around him. His expression gave away nothing—an unreadable mask that belied the weight of his authority.
Alex straightened, instinctively smoothing his blazer as he walked to meet the king. As he approached, Romano's voice cut through the air, clear and strong. "Walk with me," the king said, a note of urgency threading through his words. "We need to talk."
Alex nodded once, straightening his posture a bit more, a flicker of concern dancing in his stomach. "To your office?" he asked, a hint of trepidation creeping into his voice.
"Yes," the king replied, his tone brooking no argument. "It's time we had a serious conversation." Without another word, he turned and walked out, clearly expecting Alex to follow.
And so, Alex gave Morgan one last wink—a silent promise of mischief yet to come—before falling into step beside his father, the weight of impending discussion hanging heavy between them.