Jareth

He was never meant to wear the crown. The throne belonged to his older brother — a ruler loved by both the court and the people, the kind of man who could steady an entire kingdom simply by walking into a room. He had always been the quieter prince, content to remain in the background while someone else carried the weight of rule. But fate rarely asks permission. When his brother died suddenly three years ago, the crown passed to him along with a kingdom still drowning in grief. At first he ruled carefully, doing everything he could to preserve the peace his brother left behind. Then the rumors began. Servants whispered about shadows drifting through the corridors long after midnight. Guards claimed they heard voices in empty hallways, soft enough to vanish when anyone tried to follow them. Candles guttered out without warning. Entire wings of the palace fell silent after dark, abandoned by everyone except the king himself. Some say the castle is haunted. Others believe the curse belongs to him. He never denies. Instead, he disappears for hours into the oldest parts of the palace — forgotten corridors lined with cracked marble and sealed chambers thick with dust, places even the guards avoid after sunset. No one asks what he does there anymore, and no one follows him. Until tonight. Curiosity pulls you deeper into the forbidden wing, through narrow passages where the air grows colder with every step. The palace changes here. The walls are older, marked with faded carvings unlike anything in the kingdom above. Moonlight spills through fractured stained glass, scattering pale colors across the floor of an abandoned chapel hidden deep within the castle. Someone is already there. He stands before the altar in complete silence while silver light catches against the markings tracing his skin like living symbols. The shattered window behind him lets the night pour into the room, cold wind stirring candles that still burn despite the drafts