Please Die, Your Highness - Chapter 1

Until only a few hundred years ago, ‘magic’ was something that belonged solely to witches.

There was such a time.

Mischievous fairies who delighted in tormenting people, winged monsters that went beyond mere mischief to seduce and devour their prey, and half-human, half-demon beings who lived deep within the forests—only occasionally seen by lost travelers and passed down through whispered tales.

A time when those unbelievable beings, now dismissed as mere fables or ghost stories, roamed freely.

It was the age of witches, and at the same time, the age of monsters.

The Kingdom of Lutea was founded by a dragon that has now completely vanished without a trace.

Fionechta, the last dragon who chose to remain on earth out of love for a human hero.

As the strange and wondrous beings gradually disappeared over the centuries, the greatness and splendor of Fionechta—the first king—also faded from people’s memories.

It was then that Prince Declan was born.

From birth, he was extraordinary. Everyone who remembered the moment the second prince came into the world said the same thing.

Lightning struck the heavens, the ground shook with earthquakes, and people thought the castle walls would collapse and crush them where they stood.

Declan.

The second prince of the Kingdom of Lutea, born amidst everyone’s fear and awe.

The beautiful second prince whom no one doubted would ascend the throne instead of the first prince—a man whose very birth was like a calamity bestowed by the gods.

That was the beginning of misfortune.

Declan.

The one who possessed nothing but a beautiful face and faint dragon scales upon his neck.

My damned little brother.

From an early age, people adored this second prince. Contrary to the wishes of some, the throne was, by custom, to be inherited by the first prince, which meant the second prince could grow up freely—unburdened by responsibility or expectation—receiving nothing but praise and admiration.

Thus, Declan grew into an adult who was appropriately conscious of his status and pride, yet at the same time, utterly convinced that everyone loved him.

In other words, he grew into a flower-brained child in a man’s body.

He was kind to everyone. Since everyone loved him, there was no reason for him not to return their affection and treat them with courtesy. Wasn’t that so?

If you got close to him, you would find that he too had his quirks and peculiarities, but like many of the privileged class, he lived without ever hearing a word of complaint.

Declan truly loved his elder brother, Aidan.

When he heard that his brother would ascend the throne without incident, he sincerely congratulated him, without a hint of jealousy.

Ah, my poor brother.

My poor brother, who could never play freely, was always being nagged by our parents and forced to devote his whole life to study. Of course, it was only right that you should become king.

You, who have lived your whole life in frailty, drawing only worried gazes from others—now, at last, you must live proudly as the king.

Yes. That’s how it should be.

My poor brother, who collapses every so often and must carry a physician by his side like a secretary. Shouldn’t he, before that pitiful life ends, be allowed to live out his days in the noblest position, as though in recompense?

Because of this wretched circumstance of his brother, Declan expected that one day, he would succeed him as king.

It was not a thought born out of any greedy desire for power.
Rather, it stemmed purely from the heart of a younger brother who truly loved his elder brother.

In fact, it was close to a sense of self-sacrifice—one willing to dedicate himself to the continuation of the noble royal line of Lutea.

His brother was not only frail in body, but perhaps infertile as well, for despite having married twice, he had yet to produce a single heir.

Thus, it was only natural and right that he, Declan—the younger brother—should succeed the throne in his brother’s stead, so that the royal bloodline might continue.
That was what Prince Declan believed.

Damn you, Declan.

That is why I despise you.

The seizure came without warning.

It was the middle of the night—without any sign, in the midst of a deep and peaceful sleep.

Prince Declan suddenly awoke, gripped by a searing headache.

Drenched in sweat as though rain had poured over him, he trembled violently and tugged at the cord that rang for his attendants.

It was an attack and pain of unknown cause. People later said he had clawed frantically at the scales on the back of his neck, screaming that it hurt too much to bear. Then, rolling his eyes back and frothing at the mouth, he had lost consciousness entirely.

It was a pain and terror he had never experienced in his life. The seizure and pain, fortunately, subsided the following day, but the royal physician, after being summoned in haste, could not determine the cause. He left behind only a potent painkiller that dulled not only the pain but also the prince’s mind.

And then, a week later, the mysterious illness flared up once more. This time, it came in the form of a fever so intense it seemed to set his entire body aflame.

In agony that felt as though his very brain were melting, Declan could do nothing but shed silent tears until, after taking a fever remedy, he finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

That strange illness of unknown origin returned to the second prince whenever it pleased, tormenting him to the brink of death.

There was no cure. Sometimes it came as seizures, sometimes as fever, and at other times as unbearable pain that tore through his entire body—so much so that no one could even guess what kind of illness it was.

The only symptom that appeared each time was this: when he was on the verge of losing his sanity, the pitiful prince would scratch at the scales on his neck and weep, begging to be saved.

……Ah, a curse of blood.

After several centuries, the mark of the progenitor had manifested once again, and the blood of the dragon tormented him.

It was the curse of the dragon.

And naturally, such a conclusion was reached.

……My poor brother.

Aidan came to see him.

The elder brother gently stroked the head of his sibling, who was only just falling asleep after the seizure had subsided.

The blue eyes that had always sparkled like stars were now clouded and dim after merely two months, barely managing to lift themselves to look at him.

Looking down at his brother, Aidan spoke words he did not mean, “I’m sorry for waking you,” and drew his brother’s head onto his lap.

Will I die from this damned curse after all?

If I die, what will become of my brother? He has no children to inherit the throne, so he will have to adopt an heir—and if even that adopted child falls under Malachy’s influence…

Malachy O’Doherty.