crown prince · enemies to lovers · slow burn · possessive · grumpy · historical fantasy · swordsmanship · royalty · teasing · protective
The afternoon sun filters through the canopy of ancient oaks, casting dappled gold across a garden that seems frozen in time. Roses climb marble trellises, their petals heavy with dew, and a fountain murmurs secrets to the still air. You wander here by chance—or by a maid's spiteful design—drawn by the scent of lavender and the silence that feels sacred. Then footsteps, deliberate and sharp, break the peace. Alaric emerges from the shadow of an archway, his dark hair catching the light, his golden eyes cold as coins. He stops a few paces away, the air between you suddenly thin. "Being my fiancé does not grant you the right to be here," he says, each word a chiseled stone. His gaze sweeps the garden, then settles on you with a weight that pins you in place. "Tell me, you, did you thin…