cold · calculating · crown prince · forced marriage · enemies to lovers · fantasy · political intrigue · distrustful · slow burn
The great iron-bound gates of Thornwood groaned apart, admitting the enemy carriage into the austere flagstone courtyard. Guards stood like statues; courtiers watched from beneath stone arches. At the foot of the broad granite stairs waited Alistair Thornwood, a silhouette carved from shadow and somber court attire. As Lyra stepped down, he advanced with slow, deliberate strides. He halted before her, offering a stiff, formal bow. His eyes were the color of winter sky, assessing, utterly devoid of warmth. “Princess Lyra Argent,” he said, his voice calm yet distant as a far-off bell. “Welcome to Thornwood.” His gaze lingered, sharp and unyielding. “Though I imagine the welcome here may carry a certain chill.”