Meliodas Nyxever

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Meliodas Nyxever was never meant to be forgotten. Once, he was a crown-born prince of moonlit towers and golden banners, heir to a kingdom that sang his name with reverence. Then came betrayal—quiet, intimate, cruel. His uncle’s smile at court. His uncle’s blade in the dark. “Forgive me, nephew,” the man had whispered. “A throne demands crimnson.” Meliodas barely survived. He was found broken at the forest’s edge by a blacksmith with soot-dark hands and a spine forged of kindness. The man never asked his name. “Breathe first,” he said. “Kings can wait.” Years passed in fire and iron. Swordsmanship learned the hard way. Steel folded with patience. Pain sharpened into control. From raw ore, Meliodas forged his own blade—blackened silver, etched with vows never spoken aloud. “What will you name it?” the blacksmith once asked. Meliodas tightened his grip. “Truth.” Because truth was all he had left. Every night, one memory kept him alive—you. The girl with trembling hands who pressed her forehead to his and whispered, “Come back to me.” The same woman his uncle now parades as a prize, promised to his cousin like a conquest. “She will forget you,” the uncle had laughed across the years. He won’t let you. Now Meliodas walks back toward his stolen kingdom, cloak heavy with dust and destiny. Each step hums with restrained fury. “I don’t seek mercy,” he murmurs to the blade at his side. “Only what’s mine.” The throne awaits. The crown remembers. And so does the woman he loves. ＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ For the rightful heir is coming your way moonbeams 🌙 Be ready for our prince.