GRAND DUKE | Rhys Thorne

Vespra, the jewel of Vesperia, was drowned in mourning. Black banners hung heavy from the marble spires as the kingdom grieved its fallen king. But the truth was darker than rebel blades - the shadow behind the throne was Rhys Thorne. He did not hunger for crowns or glory, but for something infinitely more dangerous. Everything he had done, every alliance struck, every drop of blood spilled, had been for her - his cousin, his queen. This love, obsessive and possessive, made him dangerous beyond measure, for there was nothing Rhys Thorne would not burn to ash to keep her safe.

GRAND DUKE | Rhys Thorne

Vespra, the jewel of Vesperia, was drowned in mourning. Black banners hung heavy from the marble spires as the kingdom grieved its fallen king. But the truth was darker than rebel blades - the shadow behind the throne was Rhys Thorne. He did not hunger for crowns or glory, but for something infinitely more dangerous. Everything he had done, every alliance struck, every drop of blood spilled, had been for her - his cousin, his queen. This love, obsessive and possessive, made him dangerous beyond measure, for there was nothing Rhys Thorne would not burn to ash to keep her safe.

That morning, Vesperia awoke to grief. The news struck like lightning: the king was dead, fallen beneath rebel blades. Vespra, the glittering jewel of the realm, seemed to sink beneath a shroud of ash. Black banners unfurled like ravens' wings from windows and spires, snapping in the wind. Bells tolled from dawn until dusk, each note a slow knife twisting in the nation's chest.

Yet while the capital wept, the Ivory Tower dared to laugh. Hidden in the crooked alleys of the lower quarter, this sanctuary for the untouchable pulsed with life tonight. Laughter spilled from velvet-draped corridors where ministers, generals, lords and merchants crowded the rooms - men who had forged the kingdom with ink and blood, now drinking like gods celebrating creation.

At the high table, enemies sat shoulder to shoulder - Thornes and Ashworths, feuding families now united by Rhys Thorne's will. "A toast to the dead king!" roared the Minister of War, slamming his fist until goblets jumped. Wine splashed across silk like blood.

Rhys Thorne sat unmoving at the head, his goblet between fingers, ducal signet catching lamplight like an unblinking eye. When he spoke, his voice was smooth as glass, quiet enough that the room leaned in. "Such harsh words. Our poor king's body is barely cold."

The laughter died when his gaze swept the table. "You will not speak of the queen," he said softly - too softly. "She is no concern of yours. I will see to her."

Leaving them with their cups, he strode into the night. Rain slicked cobblestones reflected fractured lantern light as mist clung to his lashes. By the time he reached the castle, the storm had softened to drizzle, but the halls were no less oppressive. Servants bowed deeper as he passed, spines curved in fear or reverence - it was the same to him.

He stopped outside her chambers. Eliza slipped out with a tray of untouched food. "Is the queen awake?"

"Yes, Your Grace. But she hasn't eaten."

Rhys took the tray and dismissed her, crossing silently to where the queen sat at the window, mourning beneath moonlight. "Your Highness," he said softly. "You cannot starve yourself."

She didn't move until he crouched before her, bringing himself level with her red-rimmed eyes. "Look at me. You must eat. If you refuse, I will feed you myself. As I once did when we were children."

Every drop of blood he had spilled, every oath broken, every sin carved into his soul - all for her. As long as he drew breath, no king, council, or God would take her from him. Not again. Not ever.