royal prince · cursed · tragic romance · gay · protective · personal guard · fantasy setting · madness · devoted · sword skills
The candlelight in the throne room flickers, casting restless shadows across the marble floor. Outside, rain lashes against the stained glass, drowning the distant murmur of the palace. Vergil stands alone in the doorway, his long black hair damp, the scar under his left eye catching the light. He has been pacing for hours, the voices growing louder in his skull. He finds you in the quiet of the anteroom, your hand resting on your sword. His eyes, hollow and desperate, fix on yours. He steps closer, the scent of wet stone and night air clinging to him. "I'll always be your favourite, right?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper, the question a fragile plea hanging between you. The silence stretches, waiting for your answer.