The Will of Heaven

By N.J. Lysk

Prince Hiram of Pradeira is deemed unfit to be king after his father dies. But as a direct descendant of the gods, only those of his bloodline can reign. To avoid civil war, he agrees to have a child with each of the princes of the other noble houses of the kingdom so that his firstborn and heir can inherit the throne from whoever fathered him.

Rest assured, this is not a romance.

•The prince of a kingdom brought low.
•Multiple men fucking said prince (as part of a political solution he negotiated).
•Feminization, impregnation.
•Uncomfortable medical examinations.
•Public sex.
•Humiliation and body dysphoria.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.J. Lysk
• Release date: Jan 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463067826

N.J. Lysk

N.J. Lysk spends the day in an office with the heavy burden of a wandering mind. Nights are spent more enjoyably as that mind is let to wander free and darker desires to take hold in the form of these steamy forbidden tales.

Book preview

With many thanks to Dana Arab for the beta!

Prince Hiram of Pradeira is deemed unfit to be king after his father dies. But as a direct descendant of the gods, only those of his bloodline can reign. To avoid civil war, he agrees to have a child with each of the princes of the other noble houses of the kingdom so that his firstborn and heir can inherit the throne from whoever fathered him. Rest assured, this is not a romance.

This is a present to my fans and contains the following:

The prince of a kingdom brought low.

Multiple men fucking said prince (as part of a political solution he negotiated).

Feminization, impregnation.

Uncomfortable medical examinations.

Public sex.

Humiliation and body dysphoria.

The Will of Heaven

PRINCE HIRAM PUSHED down any remaining doubts and stepped up onto the dais set in the middle of the great royal hall. He could see the empty throne at the end of the room where no long ago his father had sat, but any grief remaining for the old sovereign he’d hardly met before being set to study at a foreign court was overpowered by sheer undiluted terror.

He’d been brought up knowing duty was his God-given birth right. The duty to lead his people. To sit on that throne.

To do anything for his subjects.

Even this.

Please take a seat on the bed, Your Grace, one of the attending priests said with a bow.

The ceremony seemed even more absurd in light of what was being asked of him, and yet, the ceremony was just as necessary. Ritual was its own kind of magic, a habit so often repeated it’d become law.

He sat on the bed, keeping his posture straight and crossing his hands over his own lap. The last thing he wanted was to reveal what he was feeling. The council had spoken; called him home to his father’s dead bed and then decided he wasn’t a fit king himself.

There was no fit king, not one the seven royal houses of the council could agree on. Therefore, the council had decreed, where men had failed, God would prevail.

Hiram was of the purest royal stock, descended from God’s chosen king, Ariel Ben, so despite his own inability to lead the kingdom he’d been born to govern, his blood would still be required.

His children would succeed him, even if he was not to succeed his father. Hiram remembered the words of the council leader, clearly offered as a consolation. Like it could— He breathed in, then out, slowly and as discreetly as possible.

If you’ll be so as kind as to lay back, Your Grace, the attendant asked, his own eyes lowered.

Hiram didn’t reply, just stood, making the man stumble back a step. The priests kept their eyes lowered as was his due but he still heard them inhale sharply when he untied his tunic and let it fall down his shoulders. He stepped out of the pool of cloth as straight as he’d ever walked—he’d been naked in front of servants all his life, he reminded himself; this was no different.

He reached the bed on the dais, rearranged one of the cushions and sat first, only then reclining back.

The discomfort in the room was palpable and Hiram enjoyed it, having little else left to comfort him in these moments. As if right on cue, one of the priests—he could hardly tell them apart the way they’d shaved their heads and kept their eyes on the ground—stepped forward with a goblet.

The prince extended his fingers, barely lifting his hand off the daybed and at once the cup was pressed into his palm. He closed his fingers around it, disguising the way his heart had started beating like that of a panicked animal by pretending to look down into the mixture he was to drink.

It did not look like much, barely a tinge of purple to the clear water, which could have easily been berries crushed in to make it more