-Dravareth Kingdom, 1557
The story began with two boys, both fifteen, young lovers, both blood-bound to war long before they ever learned what peace tasted like.
One was the Crown Prince of Dravareth, born of fire and steel, heir to a kingdom built on conquest. The other was the son of a servant, raised in the palace shadows, yet wielding his sword with the precision of a god.
They were not equals by blood, but they were by bond—brothers by battle but lovers by heart, sharpened by survival, unstoppable when they stood side by side.
At fifteen, their blades sang louder than any war drum. Together, they tore through the battlefield like a storm, their strikes so precise, so final, it was said the gods themselves whispered when they fought. No hesitation. No mercy. No soul left standing.
Some said they had no hearts. That the chest of a true warrior beat not with compassion but with cold purpose. And if that was true, then Lucan Velshar and Rhysand Varynthal were heartless by design.
For five years, the two warriors carved their place into legend. When the king died, Lucan took the throne—young, brilliant, merciless. And at his side stood the same boy who had once been just a servant's son. But Lucan had never seen him that way. He had seen strength. Loyalty. Fire. And he had fallen in love with it… Then with him.
So he crowned him his husband and king by his side.
Lucan and Rhysand, bound by blood and crowned by war, took the throne together—two men ruling a kingdom that had never known mercy, and now had no need for it.
Whispers spread like rot across the other kingdoms. Two kings lovers. No queen. No heirs. Unnatural, some called it. Disgraceful, others said behind closed doors. But none of them dared speak the words aloud.
Because Dravareth had grown into something vast and violent. It was now the largest and most feared of the six kingdoms. And the two men who ruled it? They were no longer boys. No longer soldiers.
They were kings.
And they had become villains in every story that didn't belong to them.
But villains don't need permission.
They take what's theirs.
They took each other.
And soon… they would take her too.
——-
They called her the jewel of Elaria, the daughter of roses and silk, the last breath of spring before the storm.
Princess Aveline Ravelynn was beauty made flesh—delicate as moonlight on frost, soft-spoken yet impossible to ignore. Her hair shimmered like gold under candlelight, her eyes the pale violet of twilight skies.
And her skin… untouched by war, unmarred by hardship. She was not forged in fire like the kings of Dravareth—she was born of serenity, a portrait framed in petals and pearls.
Every suitor from the six kingdoms had whispered her name like a prayer.
Every artist had tried to capture her face, and every attempt had failed.
Because beauty like hers wasn't meant to be contained. It lingered. It haunted.
She walked through the palace gardens as if the earth itself bent to her presence. Gentle. Obedient. Kind. Even her servants loved her—not out of duty, but out of devotion. She was a daughter who made her nation proud, a symbol of grace and diplomacy. The kind of royal raised to be adored, not feared.
And yet…
Her softness was a cage, but she didn't know how narrow that cage will soon become.