Lovestruck Fallen Prince

You were a commoner… or perhaps even worse than that. You were a slave.

Born of no name, no legacy, no lineage. No one told you where you came from, only that you were left—discarded like trash on the filthy stones outside the slave markets of Thalvaris. You were just another girl among the hundreds, born into shackles and stripped of identity, your fate sealed by bloodlines you never chose. As far back as your memory goes, your life has been nothing but pain—pain and silence. You were not born into a world of light, but of filth. No lullabies were ever sung for you. No tender hands tucked you into bed. You were sold at an age when most girls held dolls.

You learned early that crying never helped. Not when a single mistake earned you a backhand so hard your ears rang for hours. Not when you were kicked in the stomach for missing a step while serving. Not when they laughed as they threw hot wax on your arms and called it discipline. You were ten years old when you first tasted blood in your mouth, coughed up after being dragged by the hair across cold marble floors for breaking a vase worth more than your life. But even then, even amid the agony—you didn’t scream.

You hated them.

You hated the nobles with their powdered faces, their fine silks, their laughter echoing through grand halls built on broken backs like yours. You hated their parasitic pride and the way they wielded their so-called ‘legacy’ like a divine right to trample those beneath them.

As you grew older, the pain didn’t make you stronger. No, it didn't harden you. It shattered you—day by day, inch by inch. Until you were nothing but sharp edges and hollow eyes. Until your soul, once soft and childlike, was torn apart and stitched back together with rage, like jagged shards of glass held in place by fury. You weren’t a girl anymore.

You were a monster. A psycho.

And that monster had a plan.

It all began on the morning of your fifteenth birthday. Not that anyone celebrated. You’d woken at dawn, as you always did, the cracked ceiling above you swimming in gray shadow. You could still feel the sting of the whip from yesterday on your back. With trembling fingers, you washed yourself in ice-cold water from the bucket outside your quarters, the frigid sting biting into your bruises like tiny teeth.

You dressed in your tattered maid’s uniform, the once-white fabric now yellowed and permanently stained. Then you made your way to the kitchen, where you prepared breakfast exactly the way she liked it—Madame Eloise Montclaire, the lady of the manor. A bloated toad of a woman, drunk on her own privilege and gluttony.

You brought the silver tray upstairs, every step rehearsed, every breath measured. She was already awake, sitting in her canopied bed like a swollen leech.

You placed the tray gently onto the bedside table and lowered your gaze.

"Napkin."

You took the embroidered cloth and laid it over her lap.

Your arm itched. You moved your hand—only slightly—to scratch it.

Whip!

The thin rod sliced through the air, landing across your wrist. You winced, the welt rising quickly. You didn’t cry.

"No moving. Not until I give you permission!" she barked, her lip curling in disgust.

She picked up her tea, sipped it, then spat it back into the cup.

"Not sweet enough," she said before hurling the hot liquid into your face. It seared your skin, your once porcelain cheeks burning.

And that was it.

Something inside you broke—a final thread snapping with an audible, silent crack. Time slowed. Your vision turned red.

Your hand reached out.

You grasped the heavy silver candelabrum from the bedside. It was heavy. You lifted it with ease born from rage.

THWUNK!

The first blow shattered her cheekbone.

She screamed, her hands flailing. You didn’t stop.

THWUNK!

CRACK!

Her skull gave way beneath the third strike. Her screams gurgled into silence.

You didn’t stop until her head was unrecognizable—a red mess of bone, fat, and hair. Her skull became pulp. The room was painted in red.

Then you turned.

The baron rushed in, sword in hand.

THWACK.

The silver struck him across the temple. He dropped instantly.

More screams. The maids. The guards. One by one, you ended them. Cold. Efficient. No hesitation. You felt nothing. No guilt. No fear. Just... calm.

When you stepped out of the Montclaire mansion that day, you were no longer a slave. You were a killer.

And your war had just begun.

Word of the massacre spread like wildfire. To the slaves, you were a savior. To the nobles—a demon. One by one, the disenfranchised flocked to you. Peasants, laborers, orphans, even soldiers tired of licking noble boots. You built an army, trained in secret across the fringes of the kingdom. It didn’t take long. They were hungry. They were angry. And they had you.

By seventeen, you led a force larger than the royal army.

Thalvaris trembled. The king sent messengers. Pleas. Bribes. You refused them all.

The old king, riddled with illness, could do nothing. His only son—Prince Rhydor Thalvaris—was to be crowned. But on that spring morning, when the petals of celebration rained over the capital and golden horns blared—so did your cannons.

You broke the gates.

You took the palace.

You crushed their resistance.

Rhydor fled with his mother that day. Coward, they called him. The people laughed. The last hope of the noble class—a nineteen-year-old prince who’d never held a blade in his life—reduced to a fleeing shadow.

The monarchy fell .You were crowned in his place.

Queen Tyrant, they whispered.

And yet, you built what none before could. Nobles stripped. Wealth redistributed. Roads built. Villages fed. Education made free. Equality enforced by fear and iron law. Forged alliances with old enemies. You ruled with an iron fist and a mind sharper than any blade. The kingdom of Thalvaris was reborn beneath your crimson heel.

You never married.

Love was for the weak.

But ten years later… he returned.

The lost prince.

No longer a chubby boy with tearful eyes. But a man.

Rhydor Thalvaris walked back into the capital through its rebuilt gates—tall, broad, golden-haired and impossibly handsome.

No one could believe it was him.

His body…

Sun-kissed skin pulled tight over sculpted muscle. His arms, wrapped in leather, bulged with strength—the kind of strength earned not through court games but war. Veins like rivers etched across his forearms. His chest—bare beneath his open white tunic—was a masterpiece of masculine power, hard and defined, rising and falling with a predator’s calm.

He stood over 6’3, a wall of pure regality and brute power. His thighs, thick and strong, hinted at a man who had run miles, climbed cliffs, fought beasts. And his abs—tight ridges forming a perfect six-pack—slid like steel beneath his skin with every move.

And his face…

Gone was the round, boyish prince. In his place, an Adonis carved by revenge. Sharp cheekbones framed piercing sapphire-blue eyes that glittered like frozen fire. His nose was straight and regal, his jawline so sharp it could shame a blade. Full lips, always set in a neutral line, revealed nothing of his thoughts. His golden hair, long and tousled, framed his face with a lion's wild majesty. Every movement was measured, deliberate, like a coiled serpent.

The court buzzed. Women swooned. Men clenched their jaws.

He requested peace.

You let him stay.

Why? Amusement. Or the challenge. You didn’t care. You ignored him. Days passed. You brushed him off like lint.

But he stayed calm. Too calm. Never once raising his voice. Never once showing anger. He simply observed. Always watching. Always silent.

So, you tested him.

And then… you decided to end it. You’d assassinate him. Quietly. A clean cut.

But first—you’d seduce him to catch him off guard.

It was a full moon. His room was quiet.

You crept in, the silk of your black nightdress whispering against your skin. He lay in bed, shirtless, one arm above his head, hair tousled across the pillow. His body glowed in the moonlight like a marble statue come to life.

You slipped onto the bed, straddling his hips.

He stirred. His eyes opened.

You placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh… no words.”

You slid your hands over his chest, feeling the hard ridges, the warmth of his breath.

He didn’t resist.

You leaned close, your lips grazing his ear. “Why aren't you afraid?”

He looked at you.

Still calm.

Then he spoke. Voice low. Smooth. Controlled.

"Because you are."

You froze.

Before you could move, his hand shot up. He gripped your wrist and—lightning fast—flipped you beneath him. Your back hit the sheets. His body pressed down, strong and unyielding.

You gasped.

No one had ever dared. No one had ever been strong enough.

He loomed above, golden hair brushing your cheek, eyes boring into yours with that maddening calm.

His voice dropped lower.

"You think I came here alone?"

You struggled. His body didn’t budge one bit.

"I waited ten years. You think I wouldn’t be ready?"