ONE

    The poor boy trembled beneath the much larger man, his breath catching in short, frantic bursts. “Y- your Highness…” he whispered, but his voice quickly dissolved into panicked murmurs as the prince’s shadow loomed dangerously over him.

    Whatever happened next was swift, unseen, and brutal. A sharp crack echoed through the chamber, and the boy’s body fell still. The prince exhaled as if merely inconvenienced.

    The old attendant, Hamid, entered without so much as a blink, lifting the limp body with practiced ease.

    “I instructed you to bring me one who knows silence,” the prince said, his tone velvety yet ice-cold.

    “My apologies, Your Highness,” the attendant replied, bowing before carrying the corpse away.

    Another boy was pushed inside. The prince gestured lazily for him to approach.

    Cautiously, the boy stalked over. When he was within arm's reach, His highness pulled him downwards and shoved his cock down the new boy's throat. "If I'm not able to get off, you die," his words made the him tremble, but despite the boy’s desperate attempts to obey, the prince grew irritated. With a snarl, he shoved him away like discarded cloth.

    "You're not good enough..." the prince got up and began to kick him, in less than a minute, he was dead. That was the fourth body in just a night. As always, the prince lingered over the stillness, indulging in his twisted rituals alone, letting his breathing rise and fall in the dim chamber until he felt satisfied… and only then did he call for the next one.

   ♡♡♡

    He shoved the book away from him as if both hus hands and eyes had been burnt by fire, "the hell is this?" Mars's voice was a dry rasp in the silent, dust-moted air of his mother's library.

    It was his sanctuary, a tomb of forgotten ink and parchment that smelled of old paper and the ghost of his mother’s perfume. On days when the weight of his own life pressed too hard—when the echo of his father’s indifference and his stepmother’s triumphant smiles became unbearable—he would retreat here. Within these walls, lined with the stories she had loved, he could almost feel her fingers carding through his hair, her voice a soft murmur weaving tales to soothe a boy’s fractured heart. His father, in his haste to erase all memory of his first wife, had sold or discarded everything but this single room. The key was Mars’s most sacred possession; it was the one bastion the invaders—his stepmother and her brood—had never managed to claim.

    He ran a finger over the spine of the book he’d plucked from a familiar nook, expecting the worn comfort of a re-read. Instead, his fingertips met unblemished leather. He didn't recognize it. There was no author, no publisher's mark, only a title embossed in ostentatious, looping cursive: A LIGHT THAT CHANGES FATE.

    "Seriously?" he muttered. It was a cringe-worthy title, the kind found on the bottom shelf of a bargain bookstore. Yet, it had snagged his curiosity. He cracked the cover, and a flush of heat crept up his neck. The first page was… vulgar. Profanity-laced and graphically crude. He nearly slammed it shut. What was a book like this doing in his mother's collection?

    Hesitantly, he read on. It was an erotica, but unlike any he’d skimmed before. This one was relentless, visceral. It followed two main characters: a cruel, hedonistic prince and a cunning commoner who clawed her way to power by becoming his fiancée. The narrative was a twisted dance, first painting her as the ambitious heroine, then pivoting to dissect the prince’s depravities with a clinical, almost sympathetic eye. Just as it dared you to understand him, it revealed the commoner’s ultimate betrayal, transforming her into the story's true villainess.

    Mars was lost. The world outside the library’s single window dimmed from afternoon gold to deep twilight, then to the velvety black of true night. He only snapped out of it when he turned the final page, his body protesting with a chorus of aches. He blinked, his eyes stinging and watery, and groaned as he stood, his legs prickling with the agony of restored circulation. His phone screen glowed in the dark: past midnight. He had read for over ten hours, devouring a thousand pages without a single break.

    He stared at the strange novel with a mixture of awe and revulsion. It was captivating, a literary car crash he couldn't look away from. Shaking his head, he made for the door.

    The room trembled.

    Books shuddered on their shelves, a few tumbling to the floor with soft thuds. Mars’s face paled. Earthquake? He braced himself against a heavy oak table as the shaking subsided. Taking huge breaths, he gathered his things still wondering what the hell that was about, but then it happened again.

    The room convulsed again, more violently this time. This was no earthquake. A sweet, spicy smoke, thick and white, began to pour from between the bookshelves, coiling across the floor like a living thing. Panic seized him. He rushed to the door and rattled the handle. Locked. Frantically, he patted his pockets, his fingers closing around the cold, familiar metal of the key. His hands shook so badly he could barely fit it into the lock as the cloying smoke filled his lungs, making him cough violently.

    He finally wrenched the door open and stumbled out; not into the familiar, carpeted hallway of his home, but into the chaotic heart of a bustling marketplace under a fading ochre sky.

    He spun around, heart hammering against his ribs. The door was gone. In its place was a stone archway leading into a noisy square. He was dressed differently, in a simple, coarse tunic and shorts, his feet bare and already cut and bruised from the rough cobblestones. The evening air was cold, and the scents of sizzling meat and strange, fragrant spices from food stalls made his empty stomach clench painfully.

    Disoriented and scared, he shuffled through the crowd, earning curious and disdainful glances. The world darkened rapidly, the last sliver of sun vanishing behind jagged rooftops. He was lost, penniless, and starving.

    His shoulder collided with a solid form, and he stumbled back with a muttered, "Sorry," trying to push forward.

    A strong, unyielding arm snaked around his waist, pulling him back against a hard chest. A low, dangerous voice whispered directly into his ear, the breath warm and unsettling. "You are courting death, aren't you?"