Hell's Prince

Royal Palace – The Queen's Private Chamber

Autumn wind rustled through the tall curtains of the Queen's study. The scent of aged wood and brittle parchment filled the room like an invisible haze of memory. Beyond a lion-engraved mahogany desk, the Queen sat in silence, her pale eyes gazing through a wide window overlooking the royal garden.

Footsteps echoed across the polished floor.

"Your Majesty," Charles bowed slightly.

He wore a long black coat bearing the Milverton crest on his left chest. His eyes—cold, sharp, and void of human warmth—reflected a silent confidence that no longer belonged to mortals.

The Queen turned toward him. Her expression was tired, carved by years of quiet battles and sleepless nights, but her smile was soft.

"Charles August Milverton," she began, her voice as steady as winter rain. "I summon you not as a noble… but as a man who once made a devil kneel."

Charles raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

She slid a file across the desk toward him. "Bethnal Green. I assume you know it."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "A nest of thieves and rats. I once stole bread there when I was six."

"For the past five years, we've poured thousands of sovereigns into that district," she said. "Yet, crime rises. The people remain starving."

Charles slowly opened the file. His eyes scanned the numbers, charts, testimonies.

"…Fabricated reports. Conspiracy. Or quiet murder."

The Queen stood and approached him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"I need the eyes and fangs of your devil… but more than that—I need the instincts of a man raised in the filth."

Charles didn't flinch. "Who's the lord assigned to that place?"

"Lord Gravemoth," she replied, her voice thick with loathing. "He smiles too often. And as we both know… the sweetest smile is often the deadliest blade."

Charles allowed a faint smile to appear. "Then allow me to smell the rot for myself."

---

Bethnal Green District

A thick fog blanketed the narrow streets of Bethnal Green as the Milverton carriage halted. Vespera stepped down first and opened the door. Charles descended, his boots landing in mud mixed with ashes of last week's trash fires.

"The fires here seem only meant to burn away hope," he muttered.

From behind a cracked barrel, two children peeked out. Their faces were smeared with grime, their eyes wide and guarded.

"A noble's here… he's wearin' a long coat," whispered one of them.

An old man limped toward Charles, wheezing with every step.

"My Lord… please don't just come to look. We've been looked at enough. No one ever comes to save."

Charles halted mid-step. His gaze bore into the old man's eyes.

"…Would you speak if the one who came… was a devil?"

The man trembled, then chuckled bitterly. "If the devil brings bread, we'll pray to him."

Charles bowed his head slightly. "Then pray."

---

Inside a Collapsing Shack

Charles sat across from two residents—a young woman with a thin baby in her arms, and a former factory worker with soot still clinging to his sleeves.

"They laid me off after claimin' new machines were comin' from the Palace," said the man, fists clenched. "But the machines never came. Then the factory burned down. Five of my mates died in the flames."

The woman lowered her head. "We get a loaf of dry bread once a week. But Lord Gravemoth's guards… sometimes they ask for something else in return."

Vespera stood silently in the corner, her fists clenched, though her face betrayed nothing.

Charles leaned back in the rickety chair, staring at the cracked ceiling above. "This isn't failure… it's a crime."

---

Gravemoth Manor

Lord Gravemoth greeted Charles with an exaggerated bow.

"Ah! The famed Milverton! What an honor to receive you!"

Charles did not extend his hand. He merely stared into the lord's eyes.

"I hear Bethnal Green is under direct aid from the royal treasury. Yet its people look thinner than bones."

Gravemoth chuckled. "The poor always complain. They're quite ungrateful."

"They said the same… in the dungeons of Paris. Right before the guillotine."

Gravemoth frowned. "You're not threatening me… are you, Lord Milverton?"

Charles gave a thin, dangerous smile. "Of course not. I'm simply testing how wide you can smile… before history bites off your head."

---

Back at Milverton Estate

Charles penned a letter in his study, candlelight flickering over the ink as he wrote with silent precision.

"To Her Majesty,

Send an excessive amount of royal funds to Bethnal Green. Make it public in all media outlets, so no noble can feign ignorance. I will return in two weeks. If nothing has changed…

I will cut the rot myself."

He folded the letter and handed it to Vespera.

"Deliver it straight to Her Majesty. No intermediaries."

Vespera bowed. "As you command, my Lord."

---

Bethnal Green – Three Days Later

Dusk descended over the city, thick with the stench of cheap tobacco and spoiled meat. Among the stalls of half-rotten vegetables, a man in a tattered coat stood inconspicuously, a fake scar running down his cheek.

Charles.

Covered in soot and grime, his voice now roughened with a cockney lilt.

"Oi, heard the aid factory only lets insiders in. That true?"

A tattooed guard squinted. "Who the hell are you?"

"Just a starving man," Charles grinned, revealing teeth blackened with charcoal. "But also someone who knows about gold sent from the Palace."

The guard stepped closer. "Watch your mouth."

Charles leaned in, whispering low. "One night's work. One sovereign. Then I forget what I saw."

---

Aid Distribution Warehouse – Midnight

Among broken crates and rotting food, Charles hid in the shadows.

Dry bread was scattered in sacks—most were empty. Behind them, locked boxes bearing the royal crest were stacked. Some still sealed.

"So the aid never reached them," Charles whispered.

Two men carried a safe toward a cart.

"Safe number four. Lord Gravemoth's comin' tonight."

Charles narrowed his eyes and slipped out silently through a half-collapsed window.

---

Milverton Estate – Dawn

Vespera brushed her hair with slow, deliberate strokes as Charles paced.

"Vespera."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Prepare two shadow squads. One to follow Gravemoth tonight. The other… distribute these."

He handed her a scroll.

It read:

 "People of Bethnal Green:

The Queen's aid was stolen.

Your bread became gold in your lord's vault.

Come tonight and see the truth."

Vespera grinned. "Mmm… the scent of vengeance."

---

Warehouse – Night of Fire

The people gathered like ghosts in the dark, drawn by hunger and fury.

Inside, Lord Gravemoth barked orders as gold-filled crates were loaded.

"Hurry!"

Then the gates creaked open.

Charles entered in full Milverton regalia, his presence like a guillotine's shadow. Vespera walked behind him, her smile unnatural.

"Lord Gravemoth."

The noble turned, horrified. "M-Milverton?! What is—"

Charles tossed a signed royal decree onto the floor.

"The Queen sent half a million sovereigns to this district. But the people eat dust. Care to explain why?"

He turned, addressing the people behind him.

"Because their gold… is here."

He pointed to the open vault—stacks of coins, jewels, and falsified documents.

"You stole over twenty years of their lives."

Gravemoth stumbled. "You have no—"

"…Proof?" Charles interrupted. "Look behind you."

Gravemoth turned.

All of Bethnal Green was watching.

Eyes that burned with truth.

---

Two Days After the Raid – The Execution Square

London's sky was, as always, a shade of ash grey. But today… the air was different.

Thousands had gathered in the execution square. They stood silent and tense, eyes fixed on the raised black wooden platform at the center. Rusted iron poles flanked the stage. Atop the platform, several crates lay open—revealing piles of gold coins, forged documents, royal-sealed chests, and written confessions.

A royal guard stepped forward and cried out to the crowd:

 "Citizens of London!

Behold the truth laid bare before your very eyes!

This is the stolen wealth of Lord Bernard Gravemoth—

A corruption totaling one million two hundred thousand sovereigns!

Enough to feed and heal three of the poorest districts for two full decades!"

A wave of gasps, curses, and shouts rippled through the square.

Then came the footsteps.

Lord Gravemoth was dragged forward by two executioners. His hair was wild, his noble robes torn and stained with dried sweat and humiliation. Bruises marked his face. His eyes darted frantically among the crowd, searching for pity… but finding none.

Far above the square, atop a cold stone balcony of an old theatre, stood Charles.

He wore his black ceremonial coat, the Milverton crest gleaming in silver on his chest. One hand rested in his pocket, the other held a cigarette, its smoke curling into the wind. His expression was unreadable.

Beside him, Vespera sat on the iron railing, one leg swaying lazily, like a child watching a puppet show.

"Look at them," she murmured, voice playful. "Dancing to the rhythm you set."

Charles didn't respond.

The executioners fitted the noose around Gravemoth's neck. A royal official unrolled a parchment and read with solemn voice:

 "By decree of Her Majesty the Queen,

And in the name of the people whose lives were stolen—

The sentence is death. By hanging."

Gravemoth screamed. "I am a noble! I have rights! I am wealthier than—!"

The lever was pulled.

A sickening crack echoed. The body swung, limp and pathetic, in front of the mountain of wealth he had hoarded.

The crowd erupted. Applause, howls, sobs, laughter, curses—all mixed into a single voice of rage and justice.

Charles exhaled, slowly.

 "Too easy," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Vespera tilted her head. "You wanted him to suffer longer?"

"…No." Charles stared up at the grey clouds. "I just know this is only the beginning. And the real hell… hasn't started yet."

The wind carried the scent of ash, iron, and revolution.

---

A Rooftop Nearby

On a nearby rooftop, hidden among the shadows, a figure stood watching.

His cloak billowed in the wind. A silver mask covered half his face. On his gloved hand, a black raven perched in silence, unmoving yet alert.

His voice came in a whisper, soaked in venom and curiosity.

 "So… Charles August Milverton has finally begun to move."

He stared down at the man on the balcony.

"If the Devil Prince himself is striking at the nobility…"

"…Then we can no longer stay hidden."

The figure turned away from the execution, his coat trailing behind like a shadow torn from the earth. The raven followed silently, wings spread like a curse.

---

Later That Night – Royal Palace

The Queen sat alone in her chambers, candlelight dancing across her face. In her hands, the official report of Gravemoth's downfall.

A faint smile touched her lips.

 "Well done, Charles. I didn't choose the wrong demon."

---

Milverton Estate – That Same Night

Charles stood in front of a map pinned to the wall—red threads and ink lines crossing districts like veins. Bethnal Green had a black rose pinned to it.

Vespera entered, still humming from earlier.

 "What's next, my Lord?"

Charles traced a line northward with one gloved finger.

 "There are still many rats nesting in this kingdom, Vespera."

He struck a match, lit a fresh cigarette, and looked toward the window.

 "And I won't stop… until every inch of this rotten kingdom is rebuilt with blood."

---