THE TRASH PRINCE'S BLUEPRINTS SYSTEM

In the glittering, power-choked heart of the Thaloria Kingdom, beneath the alabaster domes and spires of the Royal City, there lived a walking shame dressed in royal blood: Third Prince Cain Vailtair Thaloria. A man once destined for greatness, no, forged in the divine crucible of fate to become a protector of the mageborn and a wielder of Forbidden Magic, but now reduced to little more than a lecherous parasite, gorging on the rotting fruits of royal indulgence.

Once, long ago, he was brilliant. A prodigy. Sharp of mind, lethal of hand, fluent in the ancient tongues of runes and calculus. A promising tactician. A polyglot of arcane arts. A beast of the blade. A mind fit for a throne.

And then it all came undone.

Now, Cain saunters through life with a drunken grin, steeped in scandal and drowning in silks and sin. A disgraceful thorn in the side of King Alexander Cain Thaloria. A walking migraine for Second Prince Theron Valeheart Thaloria, the realm’s ironclad disciplinarian. And an open wound on the pride of Crown Prince Alaric Vaelen Thaloria, heir to the throne and unshakable champion of decorum.

Yet the people know him.

Half the realm curses his name; the other half toasts it nightly.

In the bustling heart of Thaloria City, the sun slinks westward, casting golden slashes through the stained-glass windows of the Gilded Goblet Brothel Tavern. The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and sweet mead.

Prince Cain enters like a serpent into Eden.

He stinks of spiced wine and ego, draped in sapphire silks stained by indifference. Chains of gold sway from his neck like prison shackles too luxurious to mind. His boots, once polished obsidian, are now scuffed like the morals he discarded long ago.

Heads turn.

Voices hush.

Even the harlots pause mid-moan, eyes widening as Thaloria's favorite shame makes his entrance.

Cain doesn’t look at them.

He doesn’t have to.

He knows they’re watching. They always are.

He walks with the confidence of a man who’s danced with death and decides he prefers wine. His back is straight, posture princely, even if his soul reeks of rot.

He slides onto an empty seat by the bar and waves over a tavern girl. She knows him, of course. They all do.

He grabs a tankard of his favorite drink, rich, honey-thick mead, and grins. "Honey glazed chicken. Whole. Spiced to hell. And hurry. I’m starving for more than just food."

The girl, no older than 18, blushes, but her face betrays no surprise. He reaches under her skirt, pulls down her small-clothes, makes her moan as he inserts two fingers in the sweet wetness between her legs. She doesn’t protest. She moans instead. For Cain, this is routine.

Elegantly profane.

He lets her go with a flick of his fingers and scans the room. There. Anya Hill. The tavern's madam. Wealthy. Witty. Born of dirt and grit. And somehow still radiant, defying age with grace and stubborn pride.

Cain approaches her.

"Still serving drinks, Anya? I thought the rich liked to watch others toil while they rot in luxury. You’re doing it all wrong."

Anya turns, her dark eyes twinkling. "Still breathing, Cain? I thought you'd have choked on your own debauchery by now."

He smirks. She always was good with her tongue. In more ways than one.

"You wound me."

"Not nearly enough."

She curtsies with practiced elegance. "Enjoy your meal, Your Highness. If one of the girls strikes your perverse little fancy, do take her upstairs. But try not to kill anyone this time, would you? We’re low on cleaning staff."

Cain chuckles, genuinely amused. It’s hard to stay mad at Anya.

But then, the tavern door slams open.

In steps a man in a blood-red military dress. Immaculate. Rigid. Sharp enough to cut silence with his stride. A badge gleams from his breast, the sigil of the Kingdom’s Defense Secretary.

Lucius Jeffries.

He doesn’t belong here.

The serving girl who spots the badge pales like a ghost and guides him to Cain.

Lucius doesn’t sit. He doesn’t smile. He merely speaks.

"Your Highness. The King summons you."

Cain lifts his tankard. "Tell my dear father I’m rather preoccupied with poultry and pleasures."

Lucius doesn’t flinch. "It’s about your indulgences, actually. And the blood trails you keep leaving behind."

He glares. "The King is done cleaning up your messes."

Cain shrugs. "Let him be done. I'm just getting started."

Lucius leans in slightly, his voice dropping an octave. "The Crown Prince wants you exiled. The Council agrees. And your brother Theron stopped protecting you. Do try not to act surprised when the hammer falls."

He turns and walks out.

Cain exhales through his nose. No anger. Just a flicker of intrigue. Finally, something different.

Night.

Cain stands in the royal Throne Room, ceremonial robes clinging to his frame like a lie. He bows, elegant and mocking.

"You summoned me, Father? What must I answer for this time? My crimes or my existence?"

King Alexander Cain Thaloria sits atop the throne like a mountain carved from judgment.

His voice is iron.

"You disgrace me. You disgrace your brothers. You disgrace this house."

The Crown Prince sneers from the sidelines. His silver hair glimmers like frost on steel. Second Prince Theron says nothing, but his eyes speak: You brought this upon yourself.

The King rises.

"By unanimous decree of the Royal Council, I strip you of courtly residence and exile you to Frostmark Province. You will be its Lord Protector."

Cain’s laughter is short, sharp.

"You wish to punish me by giving me land, power, and gold? Forgive me, but that sounds like a poorly wrapped gift."

Alexander doesn't flinch. "You will govern Frostmark. Alone. You will tame it, or it will devour you. There will be no interference from the capital. No indulgences. No cover-ups. Only your title remains."

The Crown Prince smirks.

Cain speaks again, this time venomously soft. "And if I refuse?"

The King raises a hand.

The Royal Guard steps forward, spears raised.

Cain eyes them. "Ah. So it’s to be banished by blade. How delightfully…theatrical."

He bows once more. This time, there is no sarcasm. Only cold promises.

"Very well, Father. I shall ride to Frostmark at first light. I’ll play your game. And when the North bows to me, when wildlings kneel and cities rise from the frost, remember this day. Remember who built your kingdom's last hope."

He turns and walks out.

The laughter from the Council doesn’t sting. Not really.

Because deep within him, something stirs.

Something that had long been buried beneath mead, women, and laziness.

An old hunger.

And for the first time in years, Third Prince Cain Vailtair Thaloria smiles a real smile.