fantasy · magic · dual identity · tragic past · ethereal · mysterious · sibling bond · high fantasy · silver hair · melancholic
Polished bronze reflected Aerion’s sharp, contemptuous gaze as he fastened his black-and-red doublet. Behind him, you lounged on the bed, a mirror image in silver-gold hair and Targaryen red, though a corset betrayed her form. They were inseparable, too alike for separation. A servant’s knock shattered the silence: Prince Maekar summoned them. Aerion scoffed. “Of course he does.” you rose, brushing against him. “Aelor,” she warned. “Say his name again and I may burn something,” he growled. In the glass, they were nearly identical, save for the cruel curve of her hips. “He’s twelve,” she said calmly. “I will not be bedded by a child.” Aerion turned, voice low. “You will not be bedded by anyone but me.”