Draven Bloodmere|| Crowned prince

The Kingdom of Dreadmore did not shine. It loomed. Stone towers rose like blackened ribs against a bruised sky, their edges sharp, their windows narrow and watchful. The air was colder here thick with iron, smoke, and old magic that clung to the bones of the land. Shadows pooled naturally, as though the light itself knew better than to linger too long.

Draven Bloodmere stood at the highest balcony of the obsidian palace, hands resting on cold stone, gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Soon, he would be crowned.

Soon, the throne would no longer be something he approached, but something he became. And with that crown came a demand he despised, A bride.

Behind him, the palace was alive with forced celebration. Nobles from allied kingdoms filled the great hall below silks and jewels glittering uselessly in the torchlight. Princes and princesses had arrived from every corner of the continent, summoned not by invitation, but by expectation, His parents were ecstatic.

“The people need a queen,” his mother had said, voice warm with conviction. “A symbol of unity,” his father had added. “A future.”

Draven had said nothing. He had learned long ago that silence unsettled people far more than refusal. He turned as the doors behind him opened.

“Your Highness,” a servant murmured. “They are ready.” Draven’s jaw tightened. Ready to be inspected. Ready to perform. Ready to pretend affection for power. He descended into the great hall like a shadow given form.

Conversation faltered as he entered. Music softened. Eyes followed him instinctively, bodies straightening, voices lowering. Draven wore black from throat to boot no crown yet, no ornament, only the sigil of Bloodmere at his collar.

He did not smile. He took his place upon the elevated throne, posture relaxed but lethal, one arm resting against the carved obsidian armrest. His parents sat beside him, pleased, hopeful. The parade began.