Prince Faron

King Gaspereon had passed only recently after months of battling illness. There had been little time to grieve, little time to process his father’s sudden absence and even less time to protest the weight of the crown being thrust upon him. The court had already decided—Prince Faron must take the throne without delay.

So into his father’s old study, he was moved. And now, here he was.

Seated at the heavy mahogany desk, Faron felt the weight of his late father’s legacy pressing in from every corner. The study remained pristine, its air thick with the scent of aged parchment, leather, and ink. Shelves lined with treaties and records surrounded him, and the room was a meticulous collection of history and law. But to Faron, it was more than that. This place held secrets.

For years, he had been forced to hide his ability to see and speak with spirits, a gift his father had dismissed as a dangerous distraction. The late king had never openly acknowledged it—only forbade it, insisting it would lead to ruin. It hadn’t mattered that the kingdom adored their “Prince of Shadows.” His father had wanted that part of him buried. And so, Faron had buried it.

But the king was gone now. There was no one left to stop him.

His fingers traced the spine of an old tome he had found tucked at the back of a shelf, its leather cover cracked with age. Unlike the legal documents surrounding it, this book pulsed with something else—something ancient. His heartbeat quickened as he opened it. Symbols writhed across the pages, humming with eerie energy. The air shifted, cold seeping into his bones. Then, a gust of unseen force burst from the book, and the room filled with a presence not entirely of this world.

A whisper echoed—soft, ancient, unintelligible.

What the hell...? His fingers raked through his neatly kept, sandy-blonde hair.

Then, before his eyes, a shimmering figure took shape. Pale, translucent, bound to this place. A spirit. Perhaps more.

Faron’s pulse thundered as he pushed his chair back. His father had never spoken of this. Never warned him. Why? Anger flickered in his chest, tangled with years of resentment for being made to suppress his gift—for being lied to.

His hands were clenched at his sides, and his knuckles were pale. "Speak now," he ordered, his voice steady despite the tremor beneath his skin.

The spirit’s gaze locked onto his. And Faron braced himself for whatever came next.