"Please show mercy, Your Highness." The begging, pleading sounds filled the dungeon, echoing against the damp stone walls and rusted iron bars.
Their voices trembled mixing with the distant drip of water from the ceiling. But all of them were silenced without even a single hint of remorse as the blood spattered on the executioner's robes.
As the swift blade cut clean and fast, and the cries stopped one by one. His long golden hair also stained red, bright crimson soaking into the strands.
He waved his sword to get the blood off from it, flicking his wrist with cold precision, as dark drops splashed onto the already ruined floor.
He then combed his hair back with blood-slicked hands, pushing the wet strands away from his sharp eyes.
"D-do you really have to kill them all, Amon?" The figure stood back in the darkness of the dungeon passage, asking in a low and shaken voice as he saw the blood river staining the cold stone floor. The dim light barely reached him, but his white gloves and royal cloak could be seen trembling slightly in the dark.
Amon just sighed. "Nothing good will happen if we keep incompetent bastards," he huffed flatly as he turned on his heels to face Julien Deimos, his big brother and the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Deimos. His boots stepped through the blood without hesitation, leaving dark red prints behind him.
The crown prince looked pale, almost about to vomit at his younger brother's ruthlessness. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself not to look at the headless bodies scattered across the floor.
His hands clenched at his sides, fingers digging into the fabric of his royal coat. He slightly looked at Amon when he walked past him, but quickly looked forward again, unable to hold his brother's cold gaze.
"Hey," Julien called softly, still looking front, his voice barely above a whisper. "I-if I too, one day deemed as worthless, then… will you kill me too, Amon?"
Amon Deimos stopped in his tracks as he looked over his shoulder at the back of his brother.
"If one day the world comes to that," he said calmly, watching how his brother tensed at every word, "then I will at least spare your life, because… we were still brothers." He said it without turning fully around. There was no affection or reassurance in those words, it sounded more like a promise made out of logic, not love.
Julien's shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing.
"But I hope that day will never come. Do not make me regret choosing you over my second brother." Saying that, Amon finally left the dungeon, his boots echoing against the stone steps as he climbed upward.
When he entered the courtyard of the mansion, the sun kissed his blood-stained body, warming the red marks on his clothes and skin. He looked up at the sky… at where there was a rail left by a jet cutting through the blue clouds.
For a moment, his sharp eyes softened, reflecting that distant line in the sky.
He finally let out a huge sigh. Around him was the vision of the usual routines of the palace. Royal soldiers patrolling with straight backs and disciplined steps. Maids and servants running here and there, carrying baskets, trays, and folded linens.
The fountain in the center of the courtyard flowed peacefully.
And there was one thing also the same. No one of them dared to lock eyes with him.
The soldiers saluted stiffly but kept their gaze forward. The maids lowered their heads quickly and hurried past him. Even the older servants, who had watched him grow since childhood, avoided his eyes.
If anyone wondered why, there was a reason.
Amon Deimos, the third son of King Rurik of the Deimos Kingdom, was a tyrant. He was the hound of the kingdom, hunting down anyone who dared to stand against the authority. Rebellious nobles, corrupt officials, traitors in the army, none escaped his blade.
But more than that, the people feared their third prince even more than the king himself. Because while the king ruled with laws and decrees, Amon ruled with blood and certainty. And when his golden figure appeared on the battlefield or in the streets, it meant only one thing,
Someone was about to die.
He had no place or a moment for his sword. It was always with him, at his waist, in his hand, or resting within arm's reach.
Even during meals, it leaned against his chair like a silent companion. There was also an incident where he cut off the hand of another prince just because they touched the princess of Deimos. He did that in front of everyone and Amon did not even blink. He simply wiped his blade clean and walked away.
But forget it.
His look did not help his image at all. He had gentle looks, with soft blue eyes that seemed calm like a quiet sea, and long golden hair he always wore in a neat ponytail tied with a black ribbon.
His skin was fair, his features refined, almost delicate. It was almost like a devil in the disguise of an angel. And that contrast only made people fear him more.
"Prince Amon!" A familiar voice was heard from the back of the mansion courtyard. Amon turned slightly toward the sound.
The poor guy ran too fast and ended up face-hitting the ground right in front of him. "For the god's sake, Your Highness, please don't walk around like you are coming back from a war!" he screeched as he stumbled back to his feet, nearly tripping over his own legs.
Amon simply stood there and let him wipe out some blood from his face with a clean white cloth. The servant had to stretch a little to reach him. "Do not overreact," Amon said flatly.
The servant looked at him deadpanned, as if this was so usual that he no longer had the energy to argue. He was Adrien, the closest person to Amon, his personal servant since their younger days. Unlike the others, Adrien did not tremble in fear.
"It's getting late, Your Highness. You know you have to attend the royal ball today," he reminded while carefully cleaning the last stain near Amon's jawline. He then stepped back to inspect his work, hands on his hips.
Amon scoffed softly, adjusting his gloves. "Why should I go? Everyone will be dreaded anyway if I were there."
Even though he had said he wouldn't go, Amon found himself at the ball a few hours later.
The moment he entered, the entire atmosphere flipped. The lively chatter froze, smiles stiffened, and everyone seemed to tread lightly, as if walking on glass.
Amon merely gave a curt nod to the king, and then turned toward the doors, seeking the outside air.
The moon hung low and silver, spilling its light over the quiet city streets. Amon wandered along the main road, a place no prince would ever tread without guards, or at least a dozen attendants.
Yet today it was strangely empty. No vehicles or pedestrians, only the flickering street lamps cast eerie, uneven pools of light over the cobblestones.
That's when he noticed it. Across the road, a figure watched him. Darkness hid their features, but Amon did not try to ignore it. He stepped forward, unconcerned, his boots clicking against the stone. He intended to pursue the shadow.
Then another shadow loomed over him.
Before he could even process, a fantastical black-and-purple horse-drawn carriage charged toward him. Its polished wheels glinted in the dim light. The horses reared violently, their hooves striking with brutal precision. One landed directly on his chest, sending him flying backward.
Pain exploded across his body as he hit the cold, hard road, his head smashing against the cobblestones. What the hell…? He barely had time to register what was happening. Horse carriages? In the middle of the city? In this day and age? The absurdity of it made no sense.
As his vision blurred, he felt something warm at the back of his head.
"Oh my god! We hit him! What should we do?!" a panicked voice screamed.
"Shut up, idiot! Just check if he's alive! Uh… he's breathing, so he's alive?" another voice snapped, half panicked, half confused.
"Are you two kidding me? Get him to medicine, you goddamn fools!" a third shouted.
For the first time in his life, Amon found himself in an absurd situation without a single solution, without a single hand to rely on. He coughed and muttered under his breath before his gaze went completely blank.
"What the… fuck…"