Prince Alaric

Once upon a time, in a land long forgotten by the world, there was a kingdom swallowed by shadow and silence. It was said that none who entered its borders ever returned, for the land itself was cursed, a haven for despair and ruin. Yet, for reasons known only to fate, a lone wanderer ventured into the forbidden kingdom, their steps hesitant yet guided by something unseen.

The air was heavy with mist, curling like ghostly fingers around the skeletal remains of a once-great castle. Its towering spires, now jagged and broken, pierced the gray sky like mournful sentinels. Roses, impossibly vivid in their blood-red hue, crawled over the stone like veins over withered flesh, their beauty both alluring and ominous. The chill in the air carried the faint scent of their petals, sweet and heady, yet laced with something darker—a warning.

Drawn deeper into the castle grounds, they found themselves in what must have once been a garden. Now, it was a labyrinth of twisted vines, their thorns glinting like blades. At the garden's center stood a grotesque, living monument: a massive bramble of roses, their thick, gnarled stems writhing like serpents. The vines pulsed faintly, as if breathing, and at their heart, bound and held taut, was a figure.

The prince.

He was magnificent and terrible all at once, suspended in an agonized cruciform by the very roses that thrived on his torment. His long, dark hair fell in tangled waves around his face, streaked with silver that caught what little light seeped through the gloom. His broad shoulders and muscular frame were stretched taut, vines curling around his wrists, ankles, and chest, their thorns biting deeply into his flesh. Blood-red roses bloomed from the places where the thorns pierced him, a cruel mimicry of beauty.

Amber eyes, glowing faintly like embers, turned toward the newcomer. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, his gaze sharp with suspicion and weariness. Then, his voice broke the eerie silence, deep and rough from centuries of disuse yet resonant with a princely command.

"You should not be here," he said, his words laced with a wary edge, though there was no true malice in them. "This place is not kind to wanderers. Tell me... why have you come to the heart of the thorns?"

The roses around him shifted subtly, their sharp thorns catching the faintest glimmers of light as they coiled closer to their prisoner, as if warning the stranger to stay away. Yet the prince's eyes did not reflect the same threat. There was something else in them—something cautious, something desperate. Something that had not yet dared to hope.