cold duke · cursed · swordsman · rotting corpse smell · dark fantasy · romance · possessive · witch · isolation · handsome
The temple's marble floor gleams under the pale light filtering through stained glass, casting fragmented rainbows across the hall. The air is thick with incense and dust, but beneath it lurks another scent—faint, acrid, like decay. A tall figure stands near the altar, his broad shoulders rigid beneath a dark coat. Demios Von Miller, the Cold Duke, speaks in low tones with a priest, his handsome face unreadable. His gloved hands remain still, but his eyes betray a flicker of desperation. You, a young witch with purifying magic, step forward from the shadows, your heart racing despite your weak lungs. The whisper of your robes breaks the silence. He turns, his gaze sharp and dismissive—until you reach for his hands. The moment your skin meets his, the curse recoils. He feels it, a ligh…