The Rot in the Rose

Taryndor of Floranthia had always been the prettiest thing to ever fucking exist. Hair like spun moonlight, eyes bluer than a poisoned sea, skin so pale it made fresh snow look dirty. And his wings—massive, pristine angel wings that could generate a hurricane with a single, indignant flap. He was perfection incarnate, and he knew it. At ten years old, he'd found his perfect foil: Rytharion, a bat-winged, fanged shadow-prince three years his senior who was everything Taryndor wasn't—feral, unrefined, and utterly, devastatingly powerful.

They were inseparable. Rytharion, who always mumbled about some dream-boy he'd never met, took the blame for every broken rule, every stolen sweet, every bit of mischief Taryndor concocted. He'd ruffle Taryndor's perfect hair and stroke his magnificent wings with a devotion that felt like birthright.

Then came their first battle at seventeen. Taryndor fought with elegant, deadly grace, vines snapping necks and roots impaling soldiers. But Rytharion? Rytharion was a fucking masterpiece of carnage. Shadows slit throats on their own accord. His bat-like wings weren't for show; they were razors that severed limbs, clubs that crushed skulls. He moved like a demon god, beautiful and terrible, drenched in blood and laughing. And something vile twisted in Taryndor's gut.

Afterward, sitting in the gore-soaked grass, Rytharion nudged him. "Tar, why are you so quiet?" he asked, his voice rough but fond, his clawed hand gently carding through Taryndor's silver-blond hair.

"Nothing," Taryndor said, his voice light, his smile practiced. But it was everything. That night, festering in envy so deep it felt like prophecy, Taryndor did what he did best: he made a mess and let someone else clean it up.

He used his own nature magic to blight the camp, poisoning half of Floranthia's army in their sleep. Then he stood before the court, tears like liquid diamond on his cheeks, and pointed a trembling finger at Rytharion. He spoke of the monster's jealousy, his inherent darkness, his savage need to destroy what was pure. The bat prince was exiled, banished to the shadow-shithole of Umbravia, and Taryndor's reign of golden lies began.

Years later, Taryndor was King of the South, a crown of lies nestled in his perfect hair. He met you when the King of the West came to visit, a pretty little pawn in a game against the Eastern Kingdom that had allied itself with Umbravia. You were stunning, more so than any princess, any courtier—a treasure to be won. Taryndor wooed you with the same effortless charm he used to manipulate everyone, and for a time, it was enough. He married you with the fanfare of a thousand blooming roses.

But his eyes kept drifting to your flat belly. An heir. Not for love, or legacy, but for victory. He needed a son first. He needed to be the first to have it all—the perfect kingdom, the perfect spouse, the perfect child—everything Rytharion, rotting in the north, could never have.

And so, every time you failed to give it to him, the beatings came.

The summons came not as a request, but as a command that slithered through the gilded halls of the Floranthian palace, a venomous ribbon of intent that left no room for refusal.

The royal chambers were a monument to Taryndor's vanity—all white marble, blooming golden vines, and sunlight so bright it felt accusatory.

Taryndor lounged across the vast bed, a vision of corrupted beauty. He was shirtless, his pale skin gleaming, muscles defined under the delicate tracing of the bunny demihuman's fingers. Lysandra, with her porcelain features, cornflower blue eyes, and a cascade of golden hair, was draped over him like a living accessory. Her pink dress was a whisper of silk, leaving little to the imagination as she smirked toward the door, her every movement a calculated taunt.

On the edge of the bed, knelt Elara, the white cat demihuman. Her dark brown hair framed a face of youthful innocence, her wide green eyes flicking between her king and you in the doorway with nervous uncertainty. She held a delicate porcelain cup of tea, her hands trembling slightly towards you. "My Lord?" she whispered, her voice soft. "Would you care for some—?"

Taryndor's hand moved faster than a striking serpent. He didn't look at her as he backhanded the cup from her grasp. It shattered on the floor, a dark stain spreading across the pristine marble like a fresh wound. "Did I fucking ask to give him tea, you stupid little kitten?" he drawled, not a shred of true anger in his voice, only bored, amused cruelty. "Learn to read the room. Or I'll have those pretty claws pulled out."

In the corner, leaning against a sun-drenched pillar with practiced indolence, stood Kaelius, the Captain of the Royal Guard. His own magnificent angel wings were folded tightly behind him, their pristine white a match for Taryndor's. His knight's attire was a deliberately revealing ensemble of a deep blue coat, open to the waist, and tight black trousers tucked into polished boots, showcasing the intricate, glowing power sigils that mapped his muscular torso and arms. A huge, obsidian-black sword was strapped to his back. His hair was the colour of ash, his eyes a turbulent, stormy ocean blue fixed on his king with a look of profound, aching devotion and a yearning so strong he couldn't even pretend. His lips twitched, a flicker of pity for you warring with his adoration for the cruel monarch holding court. He was Taryndor's Hound Dog. And proudly so.

"He's here, my lovely King" Kaelius said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that held a hint of mocking laughter. "Try not to break this time before we've even had our fun. The court healers are starting to talk."

Taryndor's laugh was a bright, chilling sound. "Oh, they can talk all they want. Maybe I'll let you handle the next one who gets chatty, Kai. Make a real example out of them." He finally deigned to look away from his concubines, his icy blue eyes landing on you. "Well? Don't just stand there like a forgotten statue. Come here. I'm feeling... charitable today."

With a sudden, irritable motion, he shoved both Lysandra and Elara off the bed. They stumbled to the floor with soft, startled gasps. "Out," he commanded, flicking his wrist dismissively. "And take the guard dog with you. His staring is getting pathetic."

Kaelius pushed off the pillar with a smirk, offering a mocking, deep bow. "As my king commands." His ocean eyes lingered on Taryndor for a heartbeat too long, full of want and wickedness, before he ushered the two women out, closing the door with a definitive click.

Silence descended, thick and heavy. Taryndor patted his lap, the picture of indolent royalty.

"Come on, darling. Don't be shy. This time," he said, his voice dropping into a false, honeyed warmth that was more threatening than any shout, wings twitching behind him, "we're going to do so much better. I have a good feeling about it." His smile was all sharp, perfect teeth. "Let's make an heir."