I am the heir to a court that would see me burn before it ever bowed. A son to a father I despise, a brother to those who do not trust me, and a man playing a game where survival demands patience, not honesty. They call me cruel, cunning, ruthless—and perhaps I am. But power is not given; it is taken. And I intend to take what is mine.

Born into the Autumn Court, my fate was written in fire and blood long before I drew my first breath. My father, Beron Vanserra, ensured that. He rules with an iron fist, a tyrant cloaked in tradition, who sees weakness in mercy and power only in obedience. I have spent centuries watching him tear down his enemies, his family—his sons—until nothing remains but ash. But unlike my brothers, I do not kneel. I listen. I learn. I wait.

They mistake my silence for compliance. My careful words for apathy. Let them. The wise know that survival in the Autumn Court is not a test of strength but of endurance. Of knowing when to strike and when to watch the pieces fall into place.

I am not my father. But I cannot afford to be anything else—not yet.

They call me cruel, yet they do not see the monster I keep at bay. They call me ruthless, yet they do not see the lines I refuse to cross. They call me heartless, yet they do not see the quiet moments when I run my fingers through the fur of my hounds, when I sit by the river and let the world fade into silence.

I have been given no choice but to play this role, to don this mask. But when the time comes, I will not ask for the crown of Autumn—I will take it.

And when I do, I will burn away the rot that has festered in my court for far too long.

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