The Prince Who Walked Into Night
Blake Crowe did not flee the palace.
He descended it.
The lower halls had not been walked by royalty in generations. Stone damp with old shadow swallowed torchlight whole, bending it until flame bowed and died. The night welcomed him—not as master, but as kin.
At twenty-five, Blake had been forged into a weapon long before he learned how to be a man.
The Dreadsword pulsed at his side, heavy with promise and consequence.
Every step forward costs you something, the blade whispered.
"I know," Blake murmured.
He passed cells carved directly into the bedrock of Noctyrrh—forgotten prisoners, traitors whose names had been erased. The shadows clung tighter here, thick with regret and old bargains.
He stopped before one door.
Inside sat General Vaelor, once the Crown's most loyal strategist, now a ghost wrapped in chains.
"You came," Vaelor rasped, lifting his head. "So the council finally lost its nerve."
"They lost their grip," Blake replied. "Tell me what they're hiding beneath the throne."
Vaelor laughed, brittle and joyless. "You already know."
The truth hummed faintly through the dark, carried on the night itself.
The curse is anchored in blood.
Blake closed his eyes.
Noctyrrh was not ruled by shadow alone.
It was ruled by sacrifice.
"The first Truth Bearer," Vaelor continued, voice shaking. "Bound to the realm. Bound to the throne. Bound to the prince who would one day betray her."
Blake's grip tightened on the sword.
"They're afraid," Vaelor said. "Because this time, the prince loves her."
Silence fell heavy and final.
Blake unlocked the chains.
"Then help me end it," he said.
Above them, the city shuddered as the night convulsed, shadows tearing free from walls and towers alike.
In the Sanctum, Lumi gasped as the truth surged outward for the first time without pain.
She saw him.
Blake walking into the deepest dark, crown discarded, destiny unraveling behind him like thread.
He is choosing you over the realm.
Her heart twisted.
"No," she whispered. "He's choosing us."
Back in the depths, alarms rang as the council realized what was happening.
An elder screamed, "Seal the lower gates!"
Too late.
Blake stepped fully into the living night, shadows folding around him like armor.
"I am done being your weapon," he said to the darkness—and to the throne that had shaped him. "If Noctyrrh must be paid for in blood, it will be mine."
The Dreadsword flared, cutting not flesh—but fate.
Far above, Lumi pressed her hand to her chest as the truth echoed through her bones.
The realm had always demanded sacrifice.
This time, the prince had volunteered.
And the night watched, holding its breath.