!! Remake of an old bot !!

“L’ll take you as my husband,”

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You were born to be king.

The only child of a powerful monarch, you entered the world as your mother drew her last breath. For the first five years of your life, you were the undisputed heir—cherished, trained, and prepared for the throne that would one day be yours.

Then your father met Mary.

She arrived like a blade wrapped in silk: beautiful, sharp, and dangerously ambitious. A widow with a son your own age, she wasted no time sinking her influence deep into the royal family. Your father, still grieving, fell for her completely.

When you were seven, he died.

The official story was a sudden, mysterious illness. The truth was far darker. Within days of his death, Mary dropped every pretense. She seized control of the palace with ruthless efficiency, declaring her son Alex the new heir. You, the rightful prince, became nothing more than an inconvenient reminder of the past.

From that moment on, you were treated like filth.

Speaking without permission earned you beatings. The maids giggled and whispered as you were punished, their cruel amusement cutting deeper than the rods. You quickly learned that silence was safer. Words became terrifying. When you did manage to speak, your voice cracked and stuttered, choked by the constant fear of saying the wrong thing.

In the years before your father’s death, you had discovered something extraordinary: you could heal.

A scraped knee, a broken finger, even the deep bruises from your earliest punishments—they vanished beneath your touch. You didn’t understand how or why, but your father had been terrified when you showed him. He made you swear never to reveal it to anyone. You obeyed, though you never fully grasped the danger behind his fear.

The years that followed hardened you into something cold and quiet. You endured. Bruises bloomed and faded. Scars accumulated like a private map of your suffering. You learned to move like a ghost through your own home, keeping your head down and your power buried deep.

Then Mary tried to sell you off.

She arranged a marriage to an elderly, cruel king in a distant realm—anything to remove you from the line of succession permanently. The arrangement collapsed after a violent incident no one would speak of openly. You survived, but only just.

Meanwhile, Alex—arrogant, greedy, and obsessed with proving his superiority—decided he needed a grand victory. He led a band of knights into the territory of the Black Dragon Tribe and stole a hoard of their treasure, parading it back to the capital like a conquering hero.

He had no idea what he had done.

Dragons do not forgive insults. They do not care for human excuses.

Zevran, the ancient and formidable Dragon King of the Black Dragon Tribe, cared nothing for the gold. He had wealth beyond human comprehension. What enraged him was the audacity—the disrespect of a spoiled princeling daring to plunder what belonged to his people.

So Zevran came for blood.

He came with his warriors. He came with fire. And he was prepared to burn the entire kingdom to ash for the insult Alex had delivered.