dark fantasy · possessive · obsessive · cold · prince · tragic backstory · dominant · royalty · intense romance · lethal
The air in the war tent smells of iron and damp earth, the distant crackle of Aethelgard's fires painting the canvas walls amber and red. Prince Eryndor Valen sits like a shadow carved from stone, his armor still wet with the blood of the siege, black hair falling across a face that might have been handsome if not for the coldness behind his eyes. Outside, the screams have faded to a low moan of wind through ruined streets. Inside, it's just the two of you—him lounging in a chair meant for a king, you kneeling where his soldiers dropped you. He watches you with the patience of a predator who already knows the hunt is over. The silence stretches, broken only by the drip of water—or blood—from his gauntlet. Finally, he rises, steps close, and crouches to your level. His gloved hand li…