The studio lights burned brighter than usual, or perhaps it was just the collective body heat radiating from the crew. Every pair of eyes in the room was locked onto the figure seated across from Candace—a man who seemed sculpted from the very essence of royalty itself.
Prince Sai Von Morvayne crossed one long leg over the other, the fine wool of his tailored suit stretching taut over muscular thighs. His golden-ratio face was bathed in the soft glow of the key light, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the beguiling depth of his eyes. When he lifted a veined hand to adjust his cufflinks, a collective inhale swept through the studio.
"Woah~" A female sound technician bit her lip hard enough to leave marks. "It's like my dream boyfriend came to life."
Her colleague snorted, fanning herself with a script. "Your boyfriend? Please, girl. That's what my 'daddy' fantasies are made of."
Near the cameras, a makeup assistant stared openly at the prince's exposed forearms as he rolled up his sleeves. "Oh. My. God," she whimpered, pressing a hand to her flushed chest. "Look at those veins. Mmmm~ I want him to—"
"Get a grip, Jessica!" Her friend smacked her between the shoulder blades, though her own pupils were dilated.
Even Candace—happily married with two children—felt her pulse stutter when the prince turned his gaze her way. For a dizzying moment, she forgot her husband's face, her kids' names, the very purpose of this interview. Then professionalism kicked in, barely.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Highness," she managed, though her voice came out breathier than intended.
The prince's lips quirked—lips that belonged on Renaissance paintings, sinful and perfect. "The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Roberts. Though please, call me Sai. 'Your Highness' feels rather... stiff."
"Then call me Candace," she heard herself say, then immediately wondered why she'd offered her first name so freely to a stranger.
What none of them realized was the subtle magic at play. The Archangel's passive aura wrapped around me like an invisible mantle, painting me in the most favorable light possible—kind, trustworthy, 'desirable'. And layered beneath that, a whisper of pheromones curled through the air, lowering inhibitions and stoking primal urges.
'Testing the waters,' I mused internally, watching a burly cameraman adjust his pants discreetly. 'Interesting.'
Normally, I used these abilities to inspire fear or compel truth. But today? Today was about understanding the full spectrum of my powers. And if the flushed cheeks and darting tongues around the studio were any indication, the experiment was a resounding success.
A production assistant stumbled past, clutching a clipboard to her chest like a shield. I caught her eye and smiled. The young lady made a strangled noise and nearly tripped over a cable.
"At least getting laid won't be an issue," I thought wryly.
After twenty minutes of frantic adjustments—and several crew members excusing themselves to "check equipment" in suspiciously timed bathroom breaks—the director's voice crackled through headsets:
"We're live in five... four..."
Candace smoothed her skirt, took a steadying breath, and turned to face Camera One with her signature poise.
"Welcome again to another edition of News Room. I'm Candace Roberts, and with me today is the world's most famous royal—a monarch with a stolen reign and throne, a victim of vicious plans and tragic ends. The sole survivor of the Morvayne family... The Last Prince, His Highness Prince Sai Von Morvayne of Genosha."
She turned to her guest, the studio lights catching the gold threads in his suit. "It's an honor and a pleasure to have you with us today."
The prince inclined his head, the motion effortlessly regal. "The honor is mine, Candace. Though I must correct one thing—I may be the last Morvayne, but I refuse to be a victim. Not when my people still suffer."*
His voice resonated with quiet power, and across the world, millions of viewers leaned closer to their screens. In a sewer three blocks away, Sebastian Wilfred paused mid-rescue mission, sensing the shift in atmospheric energy.
"Ah," he murmured, adjusting his monocle. "The game begins."
And on televisions from Tokyo to London, a prince's eyes glowed ever so faintly gold as he spoke of revolution.
The television screen flickered with the image of Prince Sai Von Morvayne as he leaned forward slightly, his golden-ratio face illuminated by the studio lights. His voice carried the quiet confidence of a man who didn't need to raise his tone to command attention.
"[The honor and pleasure are all mine, Candace,]" he said, his words measured yet warm. "[Greetings, everyone. I am Sai Von Morvayne—a member of the Genoshan royal family, and the one who remains.]"
There was weight behind that last phrase, a sorrow that didn't overwhelm but lingered like the echo of a requiem. His humility wasn't weakness; it was a choice—a deliberate contrast to the iron will be hidden beneath.
Queens, New York – The Parker Residence—
Peter Parker nearly choked on his soda as the prince spoke. "Woah! That's the Last Prince?! Damn!"
Uncle Ben chuckled, adjusting his glasses. "Now there's a man who knows how to carry himself."
Aunt May, however, fanned herself with a magazine. "Goodness, he's like something out of a romance novel."
Peter blinked. "Aunt May!"
She waved him off. "What? A woman can appreciate art when she sees it."
Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters—
Logan's beer bottle halted halfway to his lips as the prince's face filled the screen. A slow smirk spread across his grizzled face before he burst into laughter, loud enough to make several students jump.
"So, you're a prince now, huh?" he guffawed, shaking his head. "Who would've thought!"
Jean Grey arched a brow. "You 'know' him?"
Logan just took another swig, his grin widening. "Let's just say the guy's full of surprises."
Triskelion – Director Fury's Office—
Nick Fury's lone eye remained fixed on the screen; his expression unreadable. Beside him, Phil Coulson let out an involuntary sigh.
"Never seen a man so… 'dreamy' before."
Fury's eyebrow twitched. "So, this is the guy, huh?"
A soft "Mmmm~" came from Maria Hill, who had unknowingly bitten her lower lip.
Fury cleared his throat sharply. "Focus, Maria."
Hill straightened instantly, cheeks flushing. "Sorry, sir."
Fury exhaled through his nose. "Coulson, get me everything we have on him. And Hill? Try not to swoon over foreign royalty on SHIELD's time."
Malibu, California – Stark Mansion—
Tony Stark lounged across his sofa, swirling a glass of scotch as the broadcast played.
"So, this is the guy who has more followers than me, huh?" He smirked, tilting his head. "Honestly, I look much better than him. Right, Pepper? Happy?"
Pepper Potts didn't even glance up from her tablet, merely offering a deadpan side-eye. Happy Hogan, standing guard nearby, mirrored the expression.
Tony's smirk faltered. "Tch. Whatever." He took a long sip, mood souring. Even he had to admit—there was something different about the prince. Something that made bragging feel… hollow.
Hammer Bay, Genosha – Presidential Office—
David Moreau's fist slammed onto the mahogany desk, rattling the whiskey glasses.
"What a bunch of bollocks! A Genoshan prince?! Bullshit!"
His ministers shifted uncomfortably as the prince's face loomed on the screen—calm, regal, everything Moreau wasn't.
"This pretender has been undermining us for months," Moreau snarled. "And now he dares show his face?"
A nervous aide cleared his throat. "Sir, the people are already calling him—"
"I don't care what they're calling him!" Moreau roared. "He's a fraud! A distraction!"
But even as he said it, his knuckles whitened around his glass. Because deep down, he knew—the man on that screen was anything but.
Genoshan Streets – A Nation Watches—
In dimly lit homes, crowded taverns, and makeshift shelters, the people of Genosha gathered around flickering screens.
A mother clutched her mutant child tighter as the prince spoke of unity. A slave, chained in some magistrate's basement, strained to hear the broadcast through cracked walls. Rebels in the jungles huddled around a stolen radio, translating his words into hushed whispers.
For the first time in decades, hope flickered in their eyes.
"He looks like the kings from the old stories," an elder murmured.
A young mutant, his skin shimmering with unnatural hues, clenched his fists. "He's real. And he's coming."