Chapter Text
Alhaitham, prince of Serathis, was known as many things. Cold, calculating, and utterly untouchable. To the people, he was a reflection of his father, King Aldrath: a heartless monarch who ruled through desire and domination. Yet behind the frozen façade, Alhaitham carried a hatred so sharp it sliced through every moment he was forced to breathe the same air as that monster. He was a master of the sword, undefeated. No one dared challenge him, out of fear. Whispers of his cruelty made rounds through the palace, painting him in shadows that weren’t his yet he never spoke out, not even to correct them. He’d rather guard the silence behind his mother’s locked chamber doors. The queen, the once radiant Queen of Serathis but now reduced to a still figure locked away in her room, mute and hollow-eyed, a statue carved by years of torment by his father. Aldrath had broken her.
The king, famous for his lust and disdain for women, never kept a queen by his side for long. He found pleasure only in young boys that were stolen from alleys and families, bought from desperate parents, or captured like stray dogs. Brainwashed, dressed in gold, used until they withered. Most were taken at thirteen, dead by seventeen. Alhaitham was nineteen now. And though heir to the throne, the crown tasted like rusted chains. Waiting kill him. Hatred boiled with every passing moment his father breathed. Yet no plan was ripe, he remained powerless as a prince.
Today marked the execution of the seventeen year old slaves. The royal court gathered at the coliseum, not to mourn, but to feast, laugh, and cheer. The condemned were lined up on the stone platform, heads bowed, trembling. Most cried. Some stood in eerie silence. The air was heavy, and the scent of blood clung to the sunlight. For them, the execution was all entertainment, a sight for them to laugh and enjoy. The crowd roared.
“Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!”
Alhaitham sat on the high stone balcony, perched among nobles who leaned forward with shining eyes. He didn’t flinch nor move but inside, his stomach twisted in disgust, he felt like throwing up. This was tradition, a vile, grotesque tradition masked as royal justice. Speak against it, and you’d lose your tongue. Seventeen years old pretty boys, who served the king on the bed, they didn't get to taste real love or family touch. The adulthood wasn't theirs, the king took them away for silence.
The cheers quieted when the king arrived. Cloaked in black velvet and obsidian crowns, smiling as if this were theater, his playground.
And by his side, like a trophy, walked the golden boy, Kaveh. Hair like sunlit silk, skin adorned with jewels, dressed in gilded silks that shimmered with every step. Nineteen when he should have been gone. Twenty now, yet still living,still standing. The most favored slave. Was called The king’s “jewel.” And the only one to survive beyond the curse of seventeen. He moved like he wasn’t real. Like a puppet carved by a master’s hand. There was no light in his face. Just a blank, practiced calm that masked something twisted and dying deep inside. He held the king’s goblet with steady hands as the crowd resumed their madness.
Alhaitham’s jaw clenched. He hated him and that empty gaze. That submission, obedience and that loyalty. He hated how Kaveh got different treatment, better one compared to his beloved mother. He hated how Kaveh existed beside his father like he belonged there.
Kaveh stepped forward to refill the king’s red wine, the crimson liquid gleaming as it poured. The king laughed at something one of the ministers said, not sparing a glance at the slaves lined for slaughter.
Alhaitham rose. Slowly and silently. Avoiding his father’s gaze. His hands were calm, but his blood burned. He couldn’t watch this again. He turned, steps quiet as he began to leave-
Their eyes met. Kaveh’s hand froze mid-pour.
Alhaitham paused. For the first time, their gazes locked across the platform.
Kaveh's eyes were like shattered glass, flat, red, and lifeless. Not like someone who was dead but worse. Like someone who had been emptied out and made to walk again. His face didn’t flinch, not even twitch. Not a word left his lips yet his stare was suffocating.
Alhaitham’s chest tightened. He hated the emptiness in those eyes. He scoffed under his breath and turned away, disgust coiled deep in his gut, his cape trailing behind as he disappeared down the corridor.
Kaveh blinked once. Then resumed pouring the wine.
And so, the execution began.
.
The long hall was quiet but heavy, cloaked in a suffocating sort of silence that wrapped around the royal dining room like a velvet noose. The table stretched endlessly, a crimson cloth draped over its polished wood like blood over bone. Crystal goblets shimmered in the candlelight, their reflections dancing in the wine. At the head sat King Aldrath, reclined like a well-fed beast, his fingers greasy from roast duck, his smile was wide, very pleased.
Alhaitham sat to his left, motionless, his elbows resting on the armrests, fingers laced under his chin. His jaw was sharp, eyes colder than usual, watching the flames flicker inside the silver candelabra like they were worth more attention than his father’s voice.
To the king’s right, standing with mechanical stillness, was Kaveh. Golden strands of hair fell in soft waves around his shoulders, some tucked behind his ear, others messily framing his blank face. His hands were delicate, fingers curled loosely around the wine bottle, his knuckles faintly pale from holding it too long. His white robe, more ornament than garment, shimmered faintly under the candlelight just like a living decoration.
The king rambled on. “I think next month, we’ll do a double round of executions,” he said, chuckling between chews. “I want to see if the crowd roars louder when we burn them alive." Alhaitham said nothing but his fingers twitched.
Kaveh moved quiet and slow. He poured red wine into the king’s goblet, the crimson liquid, splashing slightly near the rim.
“Pour him some.” The king didn’t even look up, gesturing lazily toward Alhaitham.
Kaveh turned without a word, he stepped toward the prince. But before he could reach the cup, Alhaitham’s hand shot forward, pulling his goblet away. The movement wasn’t violent but sharp, deliberate.
“You.” Alhaitham spoke to a maid standing far back near the curtains. The young servant flinched, startled to be addressed. She rushed forward, nearly tripping, and filled the prince’s cup with trembling hands.
Kaveh froze. His posture didn’t shift, his hands still at his side, but his eyes flickered ever so slightly to the cup, to the prince’s face, then back down. A subtle bow followed. Obedience, rehearsed to perfection. He returned to his place beside the king without a sound.
Aldrath didn’t speak, just simply letting the sound of pouring wine ate them whole. He smiled, sipping from his cup, letting the tension stretch like a taut string over a fire.
.
Later that night, the halls of the palace slumbered in quiet dread. Only the wind whispered through the stone corridors, brushing the curtains with ghostly fingers. Alhaitham’s footsteps echoed faintly as he walked the hall toward his chambers but as he passed by the king’s quarters, he heard the sound again. A whimper, muffled cry, breathless moan that never reached full voice.
He stopped and hand clenched at his side, nails digging into his palm. He didn’t look at the door. Its not like he ever want to. Instead, he turned toward the window across from it, and without a word, leaned his back against the cold stone. The wind outside kissed his face, brushing through his bangs. His eyes stared into nothing. He sat there in the dark. Waiting.
Minutes passed.
The door creaked open. The candlelight inside spilled into the hallway for a moment before dying again. The figure that stepped out was hunched, slow, as if every movement cost something.
Kaveh. His robe was loose, the white silk slipping down one shoulder. His skin was flushed, marked by the dirty king. The gold embroidery of his clothes caught the moonlight like a cruel joke. He wasn't crying, didn’t look broken but he just looked empty. His eyes met Alhaitham’s shadow in the corridor. Kaveh’s breath hitched. Just for a second then he exhaled, turned his face away, and began to walk. His steps were steady, precise.
Alhaitham watched. His jaw set tight, but his voice came out low. “Was it that good?”
Kaveh’s steps halted. The silence cracked like ice. Neither of them moved so the question hung there, heavy and vulgar.
“Please refrain from saying such a thing, your highness.” Kaveh’s voice was calm. There was no anger or even fear.
Alhaitham stood now, his eyes narrowing as he took slow steps forward, the moonlight casting long shadows behind him. “Must be so much fun,” he sneered, stopping just beside him, “being the king’s favorite. Getting dressed in jewels, serving wine while people are dragged to the chopping block.”
Kaveh didn’t flinch, his mouth shut like it was taped. His face remained impassive, tilted slightly downward as if waiting for a storm to pass over his head.
The silence burned in Alhaitham’s ears. “The queen,” he spat, voice sharper now, “she’s lying in bed like a corpse. Your king did that to her. My mother. And you’re still smiling in his lap like a damn pet.”
Still, nothing. Kaveh didn’t even blink. He just bowed his head to walk again. That silence cut deeper than any blade. Alhaitham stood still as Kaveh passed him, shoulders trembling with a rage he didn’t let show. And Kaveh didn’t even look back.