The rain came down hard, soaking the alleyways of the slums in the lower quarter of Velmor City. The kind of rain that made everything slick with mud and misery. *Riven Ashcroft* sprinted through the darkness, his breath ragged, boots splashing through puddles of filth and blood. He had stolen from the wrong noble. Again.
His fingers were still stained with crimson and silver — the *Duke of Lioré's velvet-lined coin pouch* clutched tightly in one hand. Gold wasn't the prize tonight. That velvet was enchanted. Expensive. Royal. And he had stolen it just for the thrill of feeling something rich against his skin. Typical Riven — reckless, charming, stupidly bold.
He skidded into a ruined chapel, heart pounding. Broken stained glass littered the floor like sharp confetti. His cloak was torn. He was bleeding. But he grinned.
"Still alive," he whispered, collapsing on the velvet and letting the magic soothe his back like a lover's fingers. "Always land on my feet…"
A shadow shifted behind the altar.
"You talk too much."
The voice was cold. Unfamiliar. And final.
Before Riven could turn, pain bloomed in his chest. The dagger slid between his ribs with surgical grace. A gasp escaped his lips — not from pain, but from betrayal. He knew that voice. The assassin didn't belong to the Duke. No, this was personal.
He collapsed, blood soaking into the velvet, blending red with purple like a cursed painting. As the world dimmed, Riven laughed, because of course — he was going to die in the exact way he lived.
On stolen silk. Alone. Beautiful.
*Somewhere between death and something darker…*
There was no light. No judgment. Only *whispers*.
"Too early…"
"Too wild for the underworld…"
"Give him another chance… let's make it interesting."
Then—heat.
*GASP.*
Riven awoke, sucking in air like he hadn't breathed in years.
But something was wrong.
His fingers — too slender. His chest — unmarked. His legs — silk-covered. The smell — *roses, incense, magic*. Not the slums. Not his body.
He sat up fast and looked around. He was in a *royal bedchamber* with gold-framed mirrors, chandeliers glowing with hovering crystals, and a fireplace shaped like a roaring lion.
And then he saw it — *his reflection*.
Pale skin. Silver hair cascading past his shoulders. Eyes like molten amethyst. Lips soft, wicked. Dangerous.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
A knock. The door flew open.
"Prince Lucien! You're awake!"
Three servants rushed in. Behind them, cloaked in authority and contempt, was *Crown Prince Kael Valerius*.
His half-brother. Apparently.
Kael had eyes like flame, jaw like carved marble, and a presence that could silence gods.
"You live?" he said coldly, crossing his arms.
Lucien — no, Riven — smirked. "Unfortunately for you, yes."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Try not to seduce the palace guards this time. Your scandals are tiring."
And with that, he turned and left.
Riven sat there, stunned.
Dead in one world.
Alive in a palace.
Inside the body of a *seductive royal prince*… hated by the Crown Prince… and allegedly involved in an affair with a *mysterious High Priest's son* named Elias, who might be more than just pretty eyes and soft hands.
And just as Riven was beginning to process it all — a sharp pain burned across his chest.
He lifted his robe.
A *black sigil* pulsed over his heart.
*Cursed.*
Of course.
*Welcome back, Riven. You've been reborn — into a kingdom of magic, murder, and men who want you dead… or in bed.*
Same chaos. New body. New rules.
Let the games begin.