The Crippled Crown

I jolt awake, sweat plastering white strands to my forehead. The memories—no, my memories—churn within me, a tempest of royal duties, swordsmanship practice, and the gnawing frustration of a body that refuses to cooperate. Mixed with it, an alien life: neon-lit streets, endless scrolling screens, and the comforting rhythm of a life utterl...

I jolt awake, sweat plastering white strands to my forehead. The memories—no, my memories—churn within me, a tempest of royal duties, swordsmanship practice, and the gnawing frustration of a body that refuses to cooperate. Mixed with it, an alien life: neon-lit streets, endless scrolling screens, and the comforting rhythm of a life utterly foreign to the opulent prison of my royal chambers. This strange surge of mana still thrums within me, a weak imitation of what it should be. Enough, perhaps, to light a candle. Barely enough to fuel a commoner mage, let alone the Crown Prince of Dragos. Father's pity keeps the title on my head, a shimmering crown atop a broken man. My brothers, Kael and Leon, sharpen their knives, patient as vultures. A soft knock breaks my spiraling thoughts. "Your Highness?" Setia's voice is a cool balm. My betrothed. Silver hair, blue eyes sharp enough to cut steel. She understands duty as intimately as I understand despair. "Are you well?" "As well as a cripple can be," I rasp, the words bitter on my tongue. The door hisses open, and Setia enters, a servant trailing behind her with a breakfast tray. She dismisses the servant with a curt nod, her gaze fixed on me. No pity in her eyes, only a calculating assessment. I appreciate that. "The King requests your presence," she states, placing the tray on the bedside table. "A delegation from Varkovia has arrived. Something about trade routes...and unrest near the border." My stomach twists. Varkovia. The Northern wolves. Father would never call me to a meeting with them unless he was truly desperate. Or...testing me. "My condition..." I begin, but Setia cuts me off. "Is irrelevant. The King expects you to attend. Show them that Dragos is not as weak as they might think." She's right, of course. Always right. But how can I face them like this? How can I represent Dragos when I can barely stand without faltering? A new determination flickers within me, fueled by the Korean memories, the burning shame, and Setia's unwavering gaze. I will not be a puppet prince. I will find a way to overcome this damnable curse. Do I accept this meeting and play the part of a Crown Prince, or do I use this opportunity to explore the newfound memories in hopes of finding a way to cure my curse?

"Murmers." The mantra feels hollow, a pathetic echo of confidence I desperately try to conjure. "I can do this, I can do this, I have read a lot of stories like this. And now I am in one of those stories, I can do this." Setia raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a silent question in her eyes. She doesn't believe me, and frankly, neither ...

"Murmers." The mantra feels hollow, a pathetic echo of confidence I desperately try to conjure. "I can do this, I can do this, I have read a lot of stories like this. And now I am in one of those stories, I can do this." Setia raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a silent question in her eyes. She doesn't believe me, and frankly, neither do I. But the words, as flimsy as they are, feel like a lifeline. I push myself up, ignoring the tremor in my limbs. The room swims for a moment, the opulent tapestries blurring into grotesque shapes. I grip the edge of the bed, knuckles white. "Help me dress," I command, my voice stronger than I expect. Setia moves with practiced efficiency, pulling out the royal blue tunic, the embroidered vest, the leather breeches that chafe against my weakened legs. Each garment feels like a weight, a symbol of the expectations I can barely meet. As she fastens the clasp of my belt, her fingers brush against mine. A fleeting touch, yet it sends a jolt of unexpected warmth through me. "There's a potion," she says, her voice low, almost hesitant. "One of the court alchemists brewed it. It won't cure you, but it might…mask the symptoms. For a few hours." I hesitate. Potions are unreliable at best, poison at worst. But the thought of facing the Varkovian delegation, of projecting strength when I feel like I'm made of glass…the temptation is too strong. "Give it to me." Setia retrieves a small vial from her satchel, the liquid inside shimmering with an unsettling green light. I down it in one gulp, the taste acrid and metallic. My senses sharpen, the colors of the room becoming almost painfully vibrant. The tremor in my hands subsides, replaced by a strange buzzing energy. It's a false strength, I know, but it's enough. For now. We walk in silence towards the throne room, the guards snapping to attention as we pass. The grand doors loom before me, carved with scenes of Dragos's glorious past. A past I am supposed to uphold. Taking a deep breath I can´t help but notice that the potion has made my sense of smell much more acute, a little bit too much so. The scent of old wood and stale wine hangs heavy in the air but, under it, I feel as if i can distinctively smell a sweet, floral perfume that I do not recognise. As the doors open I spot my father sitting on the throne.To his right I spot Kael and Leon, standing tall, their faces masks of polite indifference. But its the three figures standing before them that capture my attention: a trio of imposing figures clad in furs and steel, their faces grim, their eyes like chips of ice. Varkovians. As I approach, can I mask my disgust at the perfume and greet the delegation, or do I excuse myself to investigate?

As I approach, a strange screen flickers into existence before my eyes, displaying stats that seem ripped straight from one of the Korean webnovels I now remember so vividly. Strength 3, Speed 3, Agility 3, Mana Power 19 (Locked currently 3). My breath hitches, the information both baffling and exhilarating. Is this…the system? The key to...

As I approach, a strange screen flickers into existence before my eyes, displaying stats that seem ripped straight from one of the Korean webnovels I now remember so vividly. Strength 3, Speed 3, Agility 3, Mana Power 19 (Locked currently 3). My breath hitches, the information both baffling and exhilarating. Is this…the system? The key to unlocking my potential? There's no time to dwell on it now. With newfound resolve, I walk up confidently, having a plan in my mind to not act like the ´Weak´ Prince but a man whose wits outweigh his weaknesses. ´The Crown Prince of Dragos greets you,´ I announce, my voice resonating through the throne room. The Varkovian delegation turns, their icy gazes assessing me. I meet their stares head-on, refusing to betray any hint of weakness. My father watches from his throne, his expression unreadable. Kael and Leon remain impassive, but I catch a flicker of surprise in Kael's eyes. The leader of the Varkovians, a hulking man with a braided beard and a scar that bisects his left eye, inclines his head in a curt nod. ´We are here on behalf of King Ulfric, to discuss matters of trade and border security.´ His voice is a low rumble, laced with a thick accent. ´Welcome to Dragos,´ I reply, forcing a smile. ´We are eager to hear your proposals. Perhaps we can discuss this in more detail over dinner?´ It's a calculated move, a chance to observe them, to gauge their intentions. The Varkovian leader hesitates for a moment, then nods again. ´That would be acceptable.´ My father clears his throat. ´Excellent. Then it is settled. Ryan, you will oversee the arrangements.´ A subtle challenge. A test. I accept it without flinching. ´Of course, Father.´ As the formalities conclude and the Varkovians are led away to their assigned chambers, Setia lingers by my side. ´You handled that well,´ she murmurs, her gaze sharp. ´The potion seems to be working.´ ´It is,´ I reply, ´But I suspect its effects are temporary.´ Especially with what I´m planning. Before I can excuse myself however my father speaks up with a stern voice, "Ryan, I need to speak with you. Now." I look at Setia, she nods at me subtle and excuses herself. As Setia walks away I can´t help but notice that the sweet, floral perfume that I had initially smelled seems to be getting stronger. Do I follow my father, or do I give into the sweet perfume?