THE FALSE PRINCE: THE BEAST KING'S FATED SIREN

“On the night of the Blood Moon, my father buried the princess and raised a prince in her place.” ⸻ The bells of mourning echoed across the kingdom before dawn. Slow. Heavy. Final. Princesses were being chosen. Again. Emeriel stood before the bronze mirror in silence while two servants tightened the black binding cloth around her chest. “Harder,” she ordered. The older servant hesitated. “Your Highness, you won’t be able to breathe properly—” “Harder.” The woman obeyed. Pain wrapped around Emeriel’s ribs like iron chains. Good. Pain reminded her who she had to be. Not a princess. Not a girl. A prince. The only surviving son of House Vaelorian. At least, that was the lie the kingdom had swallowed for thirteen years. Outside her chamber windows, thunder rolled across the dark skies of Asterith. Rain lashed violently against the palace towers while crimson moonlight bled through the clouds overhead. The Blood Moon had risen early tonight. An omen. The palace priests were probably screaming already. Emeriel pulled on her black military coat, fastening silver clasps with steady fingers. Her crimson hair—once long enough to reach her waist—now rested just above her shoulders. Short enough to pass. Sharp enough to survive. A knock sounded at the door. “Enter.” The doors opened to reveal her younger sister. Lyra. Unlike Emeriel, Lyra looked every bit the princess the kingdom adored. Golden silk wrapped around her body, pearls woven into soft auburn curls. Beautiful. Gentle. Sacrificial. Emeriel’s stomach twisted. Lyra tried to smile, but her eyes were swollen red. “They’re preparing the tribute hall.” Silence stretched between them. Neither wanted to say it aloud. Tonight, the Urekai had come. Again. Every twenty years, the Beast Clans crossed the Northern Veil to collect noble daughters from human kingdoms. Some women became servants. Some became breeding vessels. Most were never seen again. No kingdom dared refuse. Not after the m******e of Elthara. Emeriel still remembered the stories. An entire capital drowned in black fire because one king denied the Beast King his tribute. Thirty thousand people burned alive before sunrise. “They chose me,” Lyra whispered. Emeriel’s jaw tightened. Of course they had. The youngest royal daughter. Untouched by scandal. Perfect for sacrifice. “I’ll go instead,” Emeriel said. Lyra laughed weakly, like the idea was absurd. “You can’t.” “I can.” “You’re the crown prince.” “I’m a lie.” The words hit the room like shattered glass. Lyra’s expression crumpled instantly. Only she knew the truth. Only she knew Prince Emeric Vaelorian had never existed. Their father created him the night the royal astrologers delivered the prophecy. The Blood Moon Daughter will awaken the Beast Throne. So the king erased his daughter from history. And raised a weapon instead. Emeriel had learned swordsmanship before embroidery. War strategy before dancing. How to lower her voice. How to hide every curve of her body. How to survive. But none of it mattered now. Because the Beast King was coming personally tonight. And when immortal monsters traveled themselves instead of sending generals— It meant something terrible was happening. Another knock interrupted them. This time sharper. Urgent. “His Majesty requests the Crown Prince immediately.” Emeriel exhaled slowly. “It’s time,” she murmured. ⸻ The tribute hall looked like a funeral temple. Thousands of candles illuminated the enormous chamber, their flames flickering beneath black banners marked with ancient protection symbols. Nobles crowded both sides of the marble pathway in complete silence. No music played. No one celebrated. Because everyone could feel it. Fear. At the end of the hall stood King Edric Vaelorian upon his throne, pale and rigid beneath his golden crown. And beyond the massive palace doors— Something waited. Something ancient. The air itself had changed. The torches hissed violently. The walls trembled. Then— BOOM. The palace doors exploded open. Cold wind roared through the hall. Several nobles screamed. They entered like creatures dragged straight from nightmares. The Urekai. Towering warriors dressed in black armor carved from obsidian bone. Their eyes glowed unnatural shades of silver, gold, and crimson. Some had claws instead of nails. Others had horns. One warrior’s pupils were slitted like a serpent’s. And every single one radiated enough power to suffocate the room. But none compared to the man walking at the center. The Beast King. Kaelthar Draven. Emeriel’s breath caught painfully. Gods. The rumors hadn’t done him justice. He was enormous. At least a foot taller than every warrior surrounding him, broad-shouldered and terrifyingly built beneath dark ceremonial armor lined with silver fur. Long black hair fell over his shoulders like shadows given form, and his glowing gold eyes swept across the hall with predatory calm. The room collectively stopped breathing. Because this was not a man. This was a creature pretending to be one. And somehow— His gaze landed directly on her. Emeriel froze. For one horrifying second, the entire world went silent. Then Kaelthar’s expression changed. The Beast King went completely still. The warriors behind him tensed instantly. Like animals sensing danger. Kaelthar inhaled once. Sharp. His golden eyes darkened. Then the palace exploded into chaos. Every torch in the hall burst into black flames. The chandeliers shook violently overhead. Several Urekai warriors dropped to one knee with growls of pain. And the Beast King whispered, almost to himself— “…Impossible.” Emeriel’s pulse thundered. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Kaelthar took one slow step forward. Then another. His eyes never left hers. The closer he came, the hotter the air became. Emeriel fought every instinct screaming at her to run. The king stopped directly before her. Close enough for her to see the strange glowing markings crawling beneath the skin of his throat. Burning. Alive. His voice came low. Dangerously soft. “What… are you?” The bindings around Emeriel’s chest suddenly tightened painfully. And beneath her skin— Something ancient awakened.