Tejran Valdris. That was his name. Once. Before he became the dark mage. Before he lost everything.

  He had been the elder son of Duke Valdris the Third, heir to one of the most powerful duchies in the kingdom. Born into privilege and power, born into a legacy that stretched back generations.

  But Tejran had never cared about any of that.

  From a young age, he had been fascinated by magic. Not the practical magic that warriors used, not the combat magic that made one strong, not the political magic that secured alliances. No. He had been drawn to the deeper mysteries, the ancient knowledge, the forgotten arts. Magic was his hobby, his passion, his escape from the weight of responsibility.

  While his younger brother, Aran, trained with swords and studied politics, Tejran spent his days in the library, buried in ancient tomes, studying runes and rituals that had been forgotten for centuries. While Aran built alliances and gained favor with the court, Tejran pursued magic for its own sake—carefree, curious, exploring the mysteries of the arcane without concern for power or politics.

  Their father, Duke Valdris, had tried to guide him. Tried to make him see reason, tried to make him understand that magic was a tool, not a hobby. But Tejran wouldn't listen. Magic was fascinating. Magic was beautiful. Magic was worth exploring, regardless of its practical applications.

  And slowly, inevitably, he began to lose favor.

  The court noticed. The nobles noticed. His father noticed. Tejran was neglecting his duties, ignoring his responsibilities, abandoning his position as heir. He was more interested in ancient texts than statecraft, more fascinated by forgotten rituals than diplomacy.

  Aran, on the other hand, was everything a duke's son should be. Strong, charismatic, politically savvy, respected by the court, feared by the people. The ideal heir.

  And then there was Lord Marcus Thornwood.

  Marcus Thornwood. The Duke's most trusted advisor, a man of sharp intellect and sharper ambition. He had seen the writing on the wall, had seen Tejran's carefree nature, his neglect, his fall from grace. And he had thrown his support behind Aran.

  But Marcus had done more than that. He had seen an opportunity. And he had used his daughter to exploit it.

  Lysandra Thornwood. Beautiful, intelligent, charming. She had been introduced to Tejran at court functions, and he had been captivated from the start. She had shared his interest in magic, had been fascinated by the same ancient texts, had encouraged his curiosity. They had spent countless hours together—in the library, exploring forgotten tomes, discussing magical theory, laughing, dreaming.

  They were supposed to get married eventually, and she was to be his first wife. This was common knowledge among the court members.

  Tejran had fallen in love. Deeply, completely, foolishly. He had thought she felt the same, had thought their moments together were real—the late nights reading by candlelight, the walks through the gardens, the whispered conversations about magic and mysteries. He had thought she understood him, that she saw the real him, not just the prince, not just the heir.

  But it had all been a lie.

  Lysandra had been her father's tool, his instrument of manipulation. She had encouraged Tejran's interest in magic, had guided his curiosity toward darker paths, had suggested the forbidden texts, the dangerous rituals. "Oh, Tejran, wouldn't it be fascinating to try this?" she had said, showing him a ritual that was just on the edge of forbidden. "I've heard this one is powerful. You're so skilled, I'm sure you could handle it."

  She had been subtle, careful, planting seeds. And Tejran, blinded by love, had followed. He had trusted her, believed in her, thought she was helping him explore his passion. But she had been leading him toward destruction.

  Marcus had orchestrated everything. He had provided the books, the knowledge, the access. He had whispered in the right ears, planted the right seeds, coordinated the right events. He had made sure that every mistake Tejran made was magnified, every success Aran achieved was celebrated. He had turned the court against Tejran, turned the people against him, turned even his own father against him.

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  But Lysandra had been the key. She had been the one who had suggested the final ritual—the forbidden demon summoning that would destroy Tejran. "I found this in an ancient text," she had said, her eyes bright with excitement. "It's supposed to be incredibly powerful. And you're the only one skilled enough to attempt it. Wouldn't it be amazing to see it work?"

  Tejran had trusted her. And he had performed the ritual, thinking he was sharing something special with her, thinking he was proving himself, thinking he was exploring magic with the woman he loved.

  The final blow came when Tejran was caught performing that forbidden ritual—a demon summoning attempt that had gone wrong, nearly destroying part of the estate. The ritual itself had been Lysandra's suggestion, the knowledge provided by Marcus, the timing orchestrated by her father. Tejran had been curious, fascinated, in love, unaware of the trap. He had thought he was exploring magic, pursuing knowledge, sharing something with the woman he loved. But he had been manipulated, led astray, set up to fail.

  The scandal was too much. The court demanded action. The people demanded justice.

  Duke Valdris had no choice. He disinherited Tejran, stripped him of his title, banished him from the family. The wedding was called off. Aran became the new heir, and Marcus Thornwood became his most trusted and powerful advisor.

  And Lysandra? She had married Aran. Within months of Tejran's banishment, she had become the queen, the perfect political match, the culmination of her father's plans. She had never loved Tejran. She had never cared about him. She had been using him, manipulating him, leading him to destruction so that Aran could take his place, so that she could become queen.

  Tejran was cast out. Disgraced. Broken. But not defeated.

  He had realized what had happened, eventually. He had seen the pattern, understood the manipulation. Marcus Thornwood had orchestrated everything, but Lysandra had been the weapon. She had used his love against him, had led him down this path, had planted the seeds, had engineered his fall. And Tejran, carefree and trusting, blinded by love, had walked right into the trap.

  The realization had changed him. The carefree prince was gone, replaced by something darker, something angrier. He had held onto his grudge, nurtured it, fed it with the dark magic that Marcus had led him to. He had become a dark mage, dedicating himself to power, to revenge, to taking back what was rightfully his. He had plotted, schemed, worked in the shadows, always planning, always preparing.

  But he had never been powerful enough. Never strong enough. Never influential enough. Never clever enough. His plots had failed, his schemes had been stopped.

  And so he had remained on the fringes, still known as the elder prince, still given VIP treatment when he appeared in public, still acknowledged as a member of the royal family. But he had no real power, no authority, no influence. Just a title, a name, and a burning desire for revenge.

  Eventually, he was forgotten. The people forgot about him, moving on with their lives, accepting Aran as their duke, Lysandra as their queen. Only the officials remembered him—briefly, when protocol required it, when his name appeared on some document or record. And then even they forgot about him, his name fading into obscurity, his existence becoming little more than a footnote in the history of the duchy.

  The lab had been his solace, his home, his office, his chance. He had run countless experiments, hoping one of them would give him the strength to take revenge. But now, even that was gone.

  Back in the present, Tejran stands in the burned-out ruins of his hideout, his hands clenched, his eyes burning with fury. He has lost everything. Again. Just like before. Just like always.

  "Aran," Tejran whispers, his voice cold, dangerous. "Marcus Thornwood. You will pay. You will all pay. I will have my revenge. I will have it indeed."