The Rogue Prince Of Persia -

He was not the heir. He was the spare, the splinter, the sand in the eye of destiny. His brother, Prince Reza, was the golden sun around whom the empire orbited. Strong, steady, beloved. The Rogue Prince? He was the eclipse.

“No,” Cyrus said, stepping onto the parapet’s edge. Wind clawed at his tunic. “I threaten clarity. Treason is just history written by the winners. I intend to write my own.” The Rogue Prince of Persia

She did not whisper “rogue.”

Cyrus smiled. It was not a kind smile. “Brother, when the vizier’s coup comes—and it will, on the third moon of next year—remember who warned you. Remember who you exiled for ‘unpredictability.’” He was not the heir

They stood in silence. A scorpion skittered between their boots. Cyrus didn't kill it. He had seen it, in a dream, saving a child’s life two summers from now. You didn’t kill futures. You defied them, or you rode them. Strong, steady, beloved