Saints and Sinners

♱ prologue | part I

Note: hello my loves! I hope you took the time to read the author's note before diving into the novel. And now, we begin with the first part of the prologue, my style :P

Pov: Vilhelm Andersen
(TW: Anxiety)

The grand dining hall, as always, stifles me with its oppressive gloriousness. The air is thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around me like a vice, forcing my knee to bounce nervously beneath the table.

I shouldn't have come. But refusing would have led to the same outcome—being dragged here by force. 

My heart races, pounding against my ribcage like a desperate prisoner. Yet my heart, locked in its cage of ribs, had never known a greater sense of captivity. My fists clench, knuckles white, nails digging into my palms, teetering on the edge of breaking skin. However, as Alfred Hitchcock once stated, 'There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it.' What a man. 

However, nothing happens. 

I'm seated at the long, ornate table, my eyes tracing the intricate carvings on the polished wood. My breathing is erratic, revealing the anxiety that's coursing through me, spreading like wildfire. 

My thoughts race, matching the flickering candlelight that casts eerie shadows across the opulent interior of the castle. It's okay, V, you'll be okay—my inner voice chants, a broken record with a shattered off switch.

You'll be fine. You'll be fine. You'll be fine.

I repeat the words no one has ever cared enough to say. In a royal family, attention is abundant, but genuine care is a rare commodity. They love the idea of me, but not me. 

For I, Vilhelm Andersen, the auxiliary Crown Prince, exist in the shadow of indifference. My very existence is unnecessary, a burden.

The thought of it plants scalding tears bordering the rim of my eyes,  each blink pushing them closer to the edge. Letting them fall would trigger a catastrophe to unfold right here, right now and I can't afford that. 

Nevertheless, I blink rapidly, trying to silence the maelstrom within me, a reflection of the turbulent weather outside. In one way or the other, my state of mind, like always, matches my hometown's weather. 

Sweden's weather at the beginning of the year is full of whispers, full of sighs. It's fraudulent but maintains its ominous composure. Time usually passes by slowly yet too quickly, a blink and the months blend in a blur, the calendar page flipping to reveal February—the month of fleeting sweetness.

This year, however, it feels as though time has frozen, trapping us in this torturous month.

I despise it. 

Sighing, I shift my gaze from the wood to the window. The storm outside rages, the wind howling and rain pelting against the glass in a relentless symphony of chaos. The curtains are violently swaying and getting drenched by the weather's cries yet, the chaos inside me is far more potent, yearning for release. 

This castle is a gilded cage—a mere dollhouse. I wasn't born into royalty by choice. My brother is their crown prince; I am the crown's reject. 

I am the forsaken one, cast aside by the crown and its decrees. To the disappointment of King Gustav and Queen Ingrid of Sweden, I do not embody the essence of royalty, nor do I fit the mould of a crown prince. I am their aberration, deemed unsuitable for royalty. I'm more suited to dangling off an attic window, smoking with black-dyed hair and piercings, where my electric guitar sings melodies of freedom. I crave a life of success without the relentless scrutiny of the public.