They used to call me "Young Master" once.
Back when I was the firstborn—the only son of the noble house of Revarn.
Even though my mother was just a concubine, I was Crowned Prince. A boy everyone bowed to, even if they whispered behind my back.
The Queen, unable to bear a child for years, watched from a distance. She smiled with eyes that never reached her heart.
But time has a cruel way of rewriting stories.
She finally gave birth. A boy. Perfect. Blessed.
And in that moment, the title of Young Master was taken from me like it was borrowed.
I didn't protest.. I didn't care.
Because I had my mother.
She called me by my name . She loves me. She smiled not for politics, but for me. That was enough.
But the world wasn't satisfied with my peace.
Soon, I became a shadow in my own home.
Every failure, every misstep, every silence—blamed. Compared.
"Why can't you be like him?"
"What a waste."
"Just the concubine's mistake."
Still, I didn't care.
But he did.
My younger brother—his hatred was a quiet storm.
Jealous of what, I don't know. Maybe the way his mother looked at me. Maybe because I never bowed to him like the others did.
He hated me without saying it… and I endured without answering.
Years passed.
Then came that day. The day no one expected.
The day our kingdom's laughter turned into screaming.
When one man bit another—and that man rose again with eyes hollow and hands twitching like broken puppets.
It spread faster than fire.
Nobles turned. Servants turned.
No one was spared—not bloodline, not beauty, not title.
Not even happiness.