The Hollow Prince
Once, there were two princes, destined to rule side by side.
Aurelius, the elder, was the jewel of the kingdom—golden-haired, fair-hearted, beloved by all. The light of the realm, the promise of peace and prosperity.
Then there was Dorian, born of shadow, quiet and brooding, a man of sharp wit and subtle skill. He was seen in the background, where whispers claimed he was more danger than promise.
The royal court adored Aurelius, but Dorian was forever cast aside, his potential unseen.
The kingdom needed one king. A single ruler to unite the throne.
A decision was made. Aurelius would be crowned, and Dorian would be exiled, sent away to live out his days far from the kingdom he was never meant to rule.
But Dorian refused to be forgotten.
He vanished into the night, leaving behind nothing but an empty throne and the echoes of his defiance.
Years passed. The kingdom thrived under Aurelius’s rule, yet unrest simmered in the corners of the land. And when the wind howled through the mountain passes, the people swore they heard a name long thought lost.
Then came war.
An army rose against the kingdom, sweeping through the land like wildfire. Cities burned, villages fell, and at last, the enemy came for the capital.
Aurelius stood at the gates, sword drawn, ready to make his final stand. His army was strong, but the enemy was relentless. The battle raged, and for the first time, doubt crept into the golden king’s heart.
Then, through the smoke and blood, a phantom appeared.
Draped in black and silver, a warrior emerged from the chaos, striking like a shadow, cutting down foes with terrifying precision.
The battlefield stilled. The soldiers of Aurelius's army watched in awe as the mysterious figure moved with deadly grace, turning the tide of battle. Wherever the Phantom struck, the enemy fell.
And then—Aurelius saw him.
A clash of steel. A flicker of moonlight on a familiar blade. A face he had not seen in years.
“Dorian?” The name left his lips in a whisper, lost in the battle’s roar.
His brother turned, his dark eyes meeting Aurelius’s own.
No words were spoken. None were needed.
The golden king and the Hollow Prince fought side by side, as they were always meant to. And together, they won.
When the last enemy fell and the battlefield lay silent, Aurelius finally faced his brother—not as a rival, but as a man who had carried the weight of exile and survived.
“The throne was never meant to be mine,” Dorian said at last, his voice steady. “Not through blood or force. But this kingdom needs us both—not as enemies, but as kings.”
Aurelius, though proud and resolute, nodded. He had ruled with strength, but he had never truly understood the power of unity.
And so, the Hollow Prince did not return to the shadows.
He stepped forward, into the light.
Together, they ruled—not as two separate halves, but as one united force. Two kings, each strong in their own right.
The kingdom prospered, not under one throne, but under a shared crown, forged from the strength of two souls bound by blood and respect.
And the legend of the Hollow Prince was told for generations—not as a tale of vengeance, but of redemption, of brotherhood, and of a kingdom that stood unbreakable with not one but two kings.
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