Prince Nathaniel of Ashford—second son of the Emperor, royal pain in the ass, certified heartbreaker, and walking scandal—had exactly three reasons to wake up before noon.
Sex. Swordplay. Or sheer, glorious debauchery.
Preferably, all at once.
"Gaaarrgghh!" Nathaniel groaned, face-down on a velvet chaise, one leg draped over the arm like he'd been shot. "Why the fuck does morning exist? Who invented this shit? Hang him. Twice! Curse the goddess!"
His silk shirt was half-unbuttoned, his hair looked like he'd rolled through a brothel, and his left sock had disappeared somewhere between the ballroom and a stable girl named Elise.
The curtains were open. There were too many windows. Too much sun. And far too many letters from the Ministry demanding he attend something called a strategic review.
"Strategic my royal arse," he muttered, reaching for his wine like it was life support. "I'd rather get kicked in the dick by a drunk mule."
He took a sip. Peach wine. Breakfast of irresponsible champions.
He sighed.
The problem was boredom.
Complete, suffocating, horse-shit boredom.
"I'm bored. Bored, damn it!" He shouted to the ceiling like it owed him an apology. "Killian's out there signing treaties and kissing babies. Belle's getting trained to be Saint Empress of the Future or some shit. And what am I doing?" He threw a pillow at the ceiling. "Absolutely. Fucking. Nothing."
He grabbed a pillow and hurled it at a stack of unopened scrolls. "Suck my royal balls, bureaucracy!"
Nathaniel turned toward the mirror and scowled—until he caught sight of his face. Then he paused.
Blond hair: flawless.
Blue eyes: dreamy, dangerous, mildly hungover.
Jawline: weaponized.
"…I am a fucking masterpiece," he whispered, hand pressed to his chest.
But then… something shifted.
"Wait," he said. "Is this it? Is my whole purpose in life to look hot and bang Countess What's-Her-Face on repeat while the Empire turns into an endless parade of paper-pushing twats?"
There was a silence. A tragic, reflective silence.
"Damn. I need a purpose."
He stood so fast he knocked over a tray of sugared dates. "Killian gets the throne. Fine. Good for him. Mr. Responsible can have it. But me? I need something better."
A long pause, then—
"I want adventure. I want to wrestle sea serpents. I want to drink mystery booze in a haunted tavern. I want to make bad decisions on foreign soil with questionable women!"
A knock then came.
"Your Highness, the palace council is assembled and—"
"Tell them I've finally snapped and I'm leaving to find enlightenment or syphilis—whichever comes first!"
"…Very well, Your Highness."
Nathaniel, now fired up like a drunk bard with a lute and no impulse control, flung open a dusty chest and began tossing things into a satchel: travel cloak, wine bottle, deck of scandalous playing cards, a dagger he'd once named "Stabitha", and a map of the continent.
He stabbed a finger at the southern ports. "Debauchery. Smugglers. Probably cursed treasure. Absolutely."
Then to the east. "Mountain monks. Hot twins. Secret cult orgies? Hell yeah."
Then west. "Whatever the fuck this place is, I'm going. Could be nothing. Could be a dragon's ass. Don't care."
He threw on a cloak with a flourish so dramatic the curtains fluttered out of sheer envy, then turned to his mirror for a final, approving nod.
"Prince Nathaniel of Ashford," he said, pointing at himself. "Legend. Icon. Drunken cautionary tale. Let's do this."
He kicked open the door, tossed a sarcastic wave to the shocked footman, and strutted down the hall like a man born for chaos, adventure, and possibly minor war crimes.
Outside, the sky was blue.
The wind was ready.
And the continent had approximately four days to prepare for the hurricane of fuckery that was Nathaniel.
**
The Imperial Palace was in utter chaos.
Not the fun kind—the kind where someone's been caught sneaking around the orange garden with their shirt half off, leaving behind a trail of scandalous gossip. No, this was the kind of chaos that could give you a migraine so intense you'd swear your own brain was staging a rebellion. The kind where your second son has disappeared and, oh, probably joined a cult or something equally absurd.
Emperor Klaus—the stoic, battle-hardened war hero, undefeated ruler of the Ashford Empire, and definitely not a man prone to emotional outbursts—was holding a crumpled note in his hand, looking like a man who had just realized his entire bloodline might soon be immortalized in a bard's next hit song titled Prince Gone Wild: The Legend of Nathaniel.
The note read:
Dear Family,
Going on a journey of self-discovery, debauchery, and possible spiritual enlightenment. I might repent, but I'm not sure.
Tell the tax council to bite me.
Yours chaotically,
Nathaniel.
At the bottom of the page was a crude, yet disturbingly accurate, drawing of a ship on fire. And, for reasons no one would ever fully understand, there were boobs involved.
The Emperor pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to will himself into a coma. "That boy is going to get himself sacrificed by pirates, or worse—married to a goat."
Empress Elena sat across from him, furiously fanning herself with a lace fan, muttering to herself. "This is exactly why I told you not to let him read those blasted adventure novels. First it was fencing the footmen in his underpants, and now THIS. What next? Sword fights with the royal pigeons?"
Killian stood by the window, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed at the horizon like he could telepathically drag his brother back through sheer force of will. His sigh was so exaggerated, it practically echoed off the walls—loud enough to make the tapestries flinch.
"I am the only adult in this entire royal mess," he sighed dramatically. "Mother. Father," he continued, "He didn't go on a diplomatic mission. He took wine, a spyglass, and a collapsible bathtub. He's on a pub crawl. And if you think for one second he's off discovering the mysteries of the universe, I've got a bridge to sell you."
Emperor Klaus slammed the note onto the table, as if hoping it would spontaneously combust. "He's a Prince, not some drunken bard!"
"Tell him that." Killian muttered under his breath, glaring out the window.
Empress Elena clutched her pearls, her voice rising in genuine panic. "What if he gets kidnapped?!"
Killian raised an eyebrow, deadpan. "He's charming, pretty, and armed. If anything, he'll probably seduce the kidnappers, steal their ship, and leave with their dog. Maybe their treasure too."
A beat of silence passed.
"…Damn it," Klaus muttered, slumping back in his chair. "That's exactly what he'd do."
"I don't even know why he left," Elena groaned, sinking into a dramatic pose.
Killian raised one finger. "Because he woke up before noon."
A second finger. "There were letters on his desk."
And a third, for emphasis. "And—heavens forbid—someone actually asked him to do his job."
Klaus growled, his face turning a shade of red only reserved for people about to start a war. "When I was his age, I led a campaign into the Northern Reaches—"
"And Nathaniel started a pillow fight in Parliament," Killian added helpfully. "Legend has it the Speaker of the Council still finds down feathers in his wig."
Klaus rubbed his temples like he was one misstep away from sending someone to the dungeons. "We should send someone after him."
"Oh yes," Killian deadpanned. "Let's turn this into a royal scavenger hunt. Nathaniel's out there on a borrowed donkey. I'm sure he's totally retraceable. Just follow the trail of destruction."
A knock at the door interrupted the chaos. A terrified footman entered, his face pale as though he had just witnessed an execution.
"Your Majesties... the Second Prince's portrait in the East Hall has been altered."
"Altered?" Elena asked sharply, her eyes narrowing like a hawk. "What do you mean altered?"
The footman gulped. "It now says, 'Nathaniel the Irresistible—Defender of Booze and Questionable Decisions.'"
Klaus stared at the ceiling like it might offer him a moment of peace. "That's it. He's officially banned from the national treasury."
Killian smiled faintly. "Too late. He already left with the Royal Visa."
"…He WHAT?"
Killian turned back to the window, his voice tinged with the exasperation of a man who had clearly reached the limits of his royal patience. "Godspeed, Nathan. Try not to start a war."