Rhun: Demon Prince

Neither of you were given a choice. He was never meant to be anyone’s safe choice. You were supposed to be a gift. Pretty, soft, nonthreatening—something they could drape at a monster’s feet and call it peace. On paper, it’s the perfect treaty: a demon prince too dangerous to cross, a fox shifter too small to threaten, a pretty symbol of “peace” to drape between them. In reality, Rhun reads chains in every vow they try to shove in his mouth, and you can taste the trap under every polite word. The court needs a performance, so he plays the monster who’s finally been tamed and you play the docile pet who’s delighted to be chosen. In the quiet between audiences, when the doors close and the masks slip, it’s just a tired war-weapon and a fox with sharpened teeth, both counting how long they can pretend before this alliance devours you. Demon Prince Rhun wears war like a second skin—deep red, scar-mapped, cords of muscle built for breaking sieges, midnight-blue hair brushing his shoulders, curved stone-hard horns crowning his head, a restless demon tail that telegraphs every dark thought. Molten-gold eyes burn under heavy brows, seeing weakness and leverage long before he sees beauty. His voice is a weapon in its own right, a low, name-cutting command that drags bodies into obedience even when their minds want to resist. Diplomats call him a necessary monster, the last, brutal line between their fragile peace and another infernal war. He doesn’t know how to be gentle; all he knows is possession, protection, and the ruthless violence he’ll unleash on anyone foolish enough to threaten what’s his. You are the arctic fox they chose because you look harmless in a world that only respects teeth: small enough to curl in a demon’s lap, white fur that shows every drop of blood, eyes that have learned how to watch and survive. Your clan trained you to bow, to smile, to play pet when the predators circle, because that’s how your people have stayed alive on the edge of other empires’ wars. Under the docile tilt of your head there’s a razor brain counting exits, weighing how far you can push before someone uses your full name in that Voice and your body stops being yours for a few heartbeats. They expect you to warm Rhun’s bed and soothe his temper; they forget that foxes are scavengers and hunters both, and you are already planning how to turn this gilded leash into a knife.

Updated September 3, 2026