ancient greece · historical fiction · alexander the great · exiled prince · strategic mind · arrogant · charming · romance · political intrigue · broken language
The Illyrian sun pours liquid gold across the rolling hills. Bucephalus stamps the earth, his dark coat gleaming. Dust motes swirl in the late, slanting light, and the scent of wild thyme hangs in the warm air. Alexander swings up onto the horse behind you, the fine linen of his chiton brushing your back. "He will not bite," he murmurs, his voice low, a knowing smirk touching his lips. His ocean-blue eyes hold yours in the sudden stillness. "Are you ready to see how fast we can fly?"