The morning broke without mercy.
Cold air slid through the cracked window of Prince's flat, carrying with it the gray breath of London dawn. It crept over the floorboards, touched the worn edges of the boxing posters on the wall, coiled around the duffel bag still half-open from last night's training. Prince sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands steepled beneath his chin. His knuckles were still swollen, a faint tremor lingering from the final round of sparring. The ache was a familiar companion sharp, honest, loyal in its own strange way.
Pain never lied. People did.
He rose, stretching until his joints snapped like branches in winter. The mirror on the wall caught him: tall, carved, eyes dark with a storm he'd learned to tame but never silence. A thin scar above his eyebrow glimmered under the weak light. He pressed a thumb against it habit, ritual, reminder.
"You fought for this," he whispered to his reflection, voice hoarse from sleep and something deeper.
He dressed quickly black joggers, battered hoodie, trainers with frayed laces. The city was barely awake when he stepped outside, the streets washed in that half-light that made everything look like a memory. Traffic hummed in the distance, distant and indifferent. Prince slipped his headphones on, but he didn't play music. He preferred the silence today. Silence let him hear the truth beneath the noise.
He began to run.
The pavement was slick from last night's rain, each footfall sending a jolt up his spine, urging him forward, faster, harder. The cold bit at his cheeks. Breath steamed from his lips in ragged bursts. He ran past shuttered cafés, graffiti-scarred walls, alleyways that still whispered secrets from the night before. London could be cruel, but Prince understood cruelty. He knew how to take it, shape it, make it his own.
The river came into view a wide ribbon of steel under the morning sky. He stopped at the railing, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. The Thames moved with slow, ancient purpose, as if unbothered by the world rushing around it. Prince leaned on the cold metal and stared into the water.
This was the ritual. The pause before the day began. The moment where he could breathe, just once, before the weight of expectation returned to his shoulders.
He thought of the journey the flights, the nights spent on floors, the rejection emails, the promises made at border control about making something of himself. When he left home, he told his mother, "I'll be a champion one day." She had touched his cheek and asked him only to survive.
Some days survival felt harder than victory.
He pushed off the railing and jogged back toward the gym. The Soho Boxing Club sat between a pawn shop and a narrow café, its faded sign hanging like a tired eyelid above the entrance. It smelled of sweat soaked into old wood, of spit buckets and disinfectant, of broken dreams and the rare few who turned them into something real.
Inside, the lights flickered before settling into a steady hum. The ring sat in the center like an altar. Heavy bags swayed gently as if stirred by an invisible hand. The soundtrack of the place gloves snapping, ropes slapping, grunts, curses hadn't yet begun. Prince liked arriving before everyone else. It felt like owning time itself.
His coach, Morgan, emerged from the back room holding a mug that probably contained more whiskey than coffee. His beard was a wild gray, his eyes sharp enough to cut glass. He had once been a contender until a shattered knee ended everything.
"Morning, Sovereign," Morgan rasped. He said it sarcastically, but there was pride buried under the gravel.
Prince nodded. "Morning."
"You look like hell."
"Feel like it."
"Good. Means you're working."
Prince tied his shoes tighter, wrapped his hands with careful precision. Each loop, each pull of the cloth, was part of the ritual. He stepped into the ring, bouncing lightly on his toes as the canvas welcomed him with a soft groan.
Morgan leaned against the ropes with his mug. "You know the press is already writing about the matchup," he said. "They think Ruiz has your number."
Prince smirked. "They don't know what number I'm calling."
"That boy hits hard."
"So do I."
Morgan's gaze didn't waver. "Hard isn't enough. He's hungry."
Prince shadowboxed, fists slicing through the cold air. "I'm starving."
The session began.
Prince worked the pads, sweat pouring from him like rain, heartbeat thundering in his ears. Every punch felt heavier, sharper. Morgan barked corrections "Keep that shoulder up!" "Turn the hip!" "Don't chase, command!" and Prince absorbed each one like scripture. The gym came alive around them as other fighters arrived, their sounds merging into a raw, rhythmic symphony.
Between rounds, Prince leaned against the ropes, chest heaving. Morgan stepped close.
"Tell me something," the coach said quietly. "Why do you really want this fight?"
Prince wiped sweat from his brow. "Because he thinks he can take what's mine."
"And what's yours?"
Prince met his eyes. "Respect."
Morgan shook his head. "Respect fades. Glory fades. Even crowns fade. Find something deeper."
Prince didn't answer. Because he already knew the truth, he wasn't fighting for respect. He was fighting for the boy he used to be. The one who lay awake listening to the wind scrape the windows back home. The one who carried his father's silence and his mother's hope. The one who believed that if he became great enough, the ache inside him would quiet.
But the ache never quieted. It only sharpened.
After training, Prince slumped onto the bench in the locker room. Steam from the showers fogged the mirrors. His muscles trembled with exhaustion. He unwrapped his hands slowly, the sweat-soaked cloth peeling away like layers of armor.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his mother.
Proud of you. Remember who you are.
He stared at the words until they blurred. Then he typed back:
I will.
He left the gym just as the sun finally broke through the clouds. The city brightened in gold, but Prince felt a different kind of heat rising inside him a quiet burn that lived somewhere between fear and ambition.
He walked toward the bus stop, hoodie pulled tight. People passed without noticing him, each lost in their own orbit. No one saw the fighter beneath the fabric. No one saw The Sovereign.
But they would.
At the bus stop, a man in a wrinkled suit glanced at Prince's bruised face. "Rough morning?"
Prince almost smiled. "Something like that."
The man nodded sympathetically. "Well… keep your chin up."
Prince tapped his jaw lightly. "Always."
When he got home, he dropped his bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch. Muscles screamed, ribs ached, eyelids drooped. But he didn't sleep. Not yet. He reached for the remote and played footage on the TV Ruiz's last fight.
In the grainy video, Ruiz moved like a predator patient, calculating, vicious. Prince watched every detail: the foot placement, the shoulder feints, the way Ruiz hid his right hook behind a lazy jab. Prince leaned forward, eyes narrowing, studying every frame.
He whispered to the screen. "I see you."
Hours passed unnoticed.
Evening cast long shadows across the flat. Prince finally shut the TV off and stood. His body was beyond tired. But fatigue was temporary. Purpose wasn't.
He walked to the window, looking out at the city lights blooming in the dark. They flickered like distant stars, each one a reminder of how far he'd come and how far he still had to go.
"This is my kingdom," he murmured. "And I'll defend it."
Outside, a siren wailed and faded. Somewhere far below, someone laughed, someone cried, someone argued with the night. Life kept moving, relentless.
Prince placed a hand on the glass, feeling the cold seep into his skin.
Tomorrow would be harder. The day after, harder still. But that was the path. The climb. The crown wasn't given. It was taken, held, defended.
And Prince was done waiting.
He turned away from the window, shoulders squared.
The Sovereign wasn't just rising.
He was coming