The Sizzling Prince

What happens when the most powerful force in existence is given to someone who never wanted to wield it?

Aric's journey begins as a humble scholar within the Priesthood of Knowledge. But fate has other plans. Thrust into the treacherous world of politics and royalty, Aric discovers he harbors a unique duality: the Epitome of Darkness and the Power of Light. This unprecedented balance of forces places him at the center of a cosmic struggle, where no mortal has ever dared to tread.

As Aric navigates this perilous path, he must master his inner turmoil and wield his extraordinary gifts to restore harmony to a world on the brink of chaos.

But how does one control something that exists beyond the laws of nature? How does one remain human when wielding the power of gods?

And when the time comes, will Aric be Valerya’s salvation or its destruction?

***

They are rivals. They are opposites. They are the threat no one saw coming.

At the center of the storm stands Valtor, the golden boy, crowned and favored heir. Raised on discipline, control, and whispered prophecy, Valtor was groomed to be king. Yet, behind his elegance and arrogance lies a colder, lonelier heart—one that burns with an unfamiliar fire when Aric enters the room.

Their battles are fierce, their words sharper than steel, but beneath every clash lies an unspoken connection neither can name.

They despise what they see in each other, yet they crave it even more.

As their walls begin to crack and their masks slip, the fire between them flickers into something softer, something stolen. The question is no longer if they’ll destroy each other, but how long they can resist.

In a world of power, prophecy, and pain, how do two enemies, forged by opposite worlds, find each other? What happens when your greatest rival becomes the only one who truly sees you?

The 13th Prince: Wielder of Light and Darkness

The words were small. Fragile. Too fragile for the vast marble halls of the High Temple of Varethiel. 


I remembered it clearly—no matter how much I wished I didn't. 


I was five years old. My boots were too large for my feet, tripping over the hems of ceremonial robes I didn't understand. The corridors smelled of iron and incense, the walls lined with faceless portraits of kings and queens I would be expected to surpass. 


At the end of the long corridor, waiting for us, stood a priest cloaked in white robes stitched with red and black linen, the symbol of the Priesthood—the great golden sigil of the order—emblazoned across his chest in fine gold thread. Beside him, Queen Seraphina waited, her expression carved in sorrow, lips pulled into a smile too brittle to be called real. She looked at me, but I was too young then to name the weight in her eyes, only that it made my chest tighten. 


The Weight of Crown