Now the eldest prince sleeps as peacefully as he can, most likely dreaming of earning the power his efforts deserve. He rests upon a regal bed, its mattress stuffed with the feathers of a griffin, soft as the clouds themselves, yet to him, it always feels faintly suffocating. Even in sleep, the air of comfort chokes him, whispering that his luxury was unearned. And as always, just before his mind can sink into nightmares of failure and weakness, the curtains are pulled open, and sunlight pierces the darkness like a sword through armor.
"Good morning, Your Highness. Today is an important day. His Majesty demands the presence of the entire royal family at breakfast." The calm voice belonged to his butler and personal guard, Hudson, a man whom the knights called the Viper. Slender, tall, and with eyes too calculating to belong to a mere servant. He had once refused the title of Knight Commander, a refusal so bold it nearly shook the court. Yet he preferred the silent duty of protecting the weakest royal—perhaps out of loyalty, or perhaps pity.
"Thank you, Hudson. How long do I have?" Marcus muttered, still half-lost in dreams he wouldn't remember.
"Thirty minutes, Your Highness. Your clothes have already been laid out."
Now, there was one thing I failed to mention regarding Marcus's gifts. Apparently, it was the very reason for his engagement and, some say, the reason his siblings tolerated him. For when the sunlight finally embraced him, it no longer looked like a sword but a cloak. It draped around his frame as if light itself conspired to flatter him. He stood tall, his height drawing envy from nobles and knights alike. His hair shimmered like the night sky and his hands seemed carved by a master craftsman. His mother's beauty lingered in his features, from his gentle gaze to the faint melancholy it carried. The only thing he shared with his father was the short, well-kept beard that framed his sharp jaw. It was the kind of face destined for portraits, not battlefields.
His attire today was simple yet dignified: a white shirt tucked into burgundy trousers, a matching jacket embroidered with the royal crest and marked with an "I", a symbol of his place as the firstborn. He wore it with the kind of pride one wears armor, hoping it might defend against the truth beneath.
"Well then," Marcus sighed, adjusting his cuffs. "Shall we?"
"By your will, Your Highness," Hudson replied, opening the chamber doors.
The walk to the royal dining hall was long, one hundred meters of silent judgment. Portraits of the royal lineage lined both sides of the hallway: the reigning King Harold Halgrave II, noble and severe; beside him, Queen Gwendoline, the light that softened his shadow. Then the six children, in order of birth—Marcus, Gemma, Mikail, Ronald, Hannah, and little Mary. Each painting glowed under the golden torches, each face proud and accomplished.
But beneath every portrait lay a plaque, small, cold, merciless. They told the tales of each royal's achievements: "Unlocked mastery of Strength at sixteen.""Slayed a griffin at seventeen.""Forged alliance with the Moxclave Kingdom through engagement."
And there it was, Marcus's own plaque. The words stared back at him every morning like a wound that refused to heal. He didn't need to read it anymore. He already knew how empty it sounded. "Made positive relations" was no feat of strength, no act of valor, just a reminder that he was useful only in conversation, not conquest.
It was a cruel hallway, this one. Built to honor the family, but for Marcus, it was a corridor of ghosts. All bearing his name, yet none wearing his worth.
When he finally entered the dining hall, the rest were already seated. The arrangement was, as always, according to seniority, the king at the head, the queen opposite him, and the children branching outward. Marcus took his place beside his father, aware that the air had shifted. His brothers looked at him with wary eyes, half-respect, half-fear.
Gemma, seated across, caught the tension immediately. She leaned back in her chair with that familiar grin. "Mikail told them not to mess with you, didn't he?" she said, barely holding back her laughter.
Marcus blinked. "Told them what, exactly?"
"Oh, you know, the usual. That you know everything happening within these walls, that your informants rival even Mother's. That you could ruin their reputations before they finish their morning tea."
Marcus chuckled softly. "Come now, Gemma, even little Mary could slay me if she wished."
Gemma smirked, resting her chin in her palm. "Maybe. But you're a dangerous man in other ways, Marcus. You're prideful, and you hide it under all that composure. The younger ones can't tell, but I can."
"And what exactly do you think you know?"
"That you're a huge softie," she said, laughing outright this time.
Even the king cracked a faint smile at that, though he quickly returned to his dignified stillness. You see, despite sharing the same roof, the Halgrave children were not especially close. The king believed that love among royals led to bias, and bias led to downfall. He demanded that his heirs learn impartiality, that emotion must never outweigh duty.
There was, however, one sacred exception. A royal could show true affection only to their spouse and to their children, never to their siblings. Love, in the Halgrave doctrine, was not forbidden; it was regulated. A tool to strengthen bloodlines, not to soften hearts.
To you and I, that may sound cruel. A father who loves his children but forbids them from loving one another? Absurd. But in kingdoms built on crowns and corpses, such is the price of peace. And Marcus… Marcus was the perfect example of it. He was disciplined, stoic, even cold at times. Yet every action, every word, was chosen with purpose. Gemma, on the other hand, was effortless, her charisma flowed like wine, her laughter infectious. She could win hearts simply by existing, while Marcus could only win them by bleeding.
He knew this difference well. He envied her freedom but respected it all the same. He claimed to know his talents and shortcomings intimately. Ah, but that is where the irony lies, dear reader. For there was one talent Marcus Halgrave has yet to recognise, but more on that later
The king's voice interrupted the warmth of their banter. He tapped the table gently, his expression calm but resolute. "My beloved family," he began, his tone ceremonial. "You know well the gratitude I hold for each of you. Your mother and I have watched you grow into remarkable men and women."
He paused, a silence so heavy it made even the chandeliers seem to sway slower.
"But," he continued, "I am no fool. I am nearing fifty, and my edge dulls with each passing season. Peace has lasted too long. As Marcus himself said not long ago, every kingdom's peace is merely a sword waiting to strike."
Marcus stiffened. He hadn't expected his father to quote him.
"I estimate a decade at most before war returns. Thus, it is with a heavy heart and clear mind that I must name my successor." His gaze shifted between his two eldest children. "From this moment forth, the heir to my throne shall be Gemma Halgrave, First Princess of the Realm."
The words fell like a hammer on still water, no explosion, just quiet ripples that reached every corner of the hall.
"I am sorry, Marcus," the king added, his voice softening. "The kingdom needs a ruler the people see as strong. Your strength lies in the mind, but the world worships the sword. Still, I ask that you guide your sister, and ensure her reign surpasses even my own."
Marcus bowed his head, hand to chest, as etiquette demanded. The gesture was perfect. Too perfect. No tremor, no hesitation. But inside, he felt something twisting, not rage, not jealousy, but an ache born of self-awareness. He had lost, again, and this time he could not even protest.
Gemma mirrored the gesture gracefully, her eyes full of mixed pride and sorrow. And then, as though nothing had happened, breakfast began. Forks clinked against porcelain, voices murmured, the air thick with unspoken thought.
Marcus ate quietly, every bite mechanical, every swallow dry. He kept his face still, his mask polished by years of necessity. But behind those calm eyes, the gears of a prince unworthy of his crown began to turn, ever so slowly.
For this is how kings are made, dear reader. Not through inheritance, nor blood, nor blessing.But through the quiet humiliation of being overlooked, and the cruel determination to earn what fate denied.