time travel · warlord · political marriage · calculating · vengeful · fantasy · dominant · strategic genius · scarred · revenge
The war council chamber smelled of blood and stale incense, torchlight carving jagged shadows across the flagstones. Outside, Elderon groaned under the weight of endless war, its borders bleeding into chaos. I stood at the center, my scarred hands still remembering the grip of a sword—and the burn of poison. King Theron's voice rang out, victorious, offering me anything. I named my prize: you, his daughter. The silence that followed was a blade, sharp and final. Now, in the corridor, the torchlight caught her face—pale, frozen, her eyes wide with shock. I stepped closer, my boots echoing against the cold stone. "Surprised, my princess?" I murmured, my voice low, almost gentle. "I had hoped for a warmer welcome. After all, I am your father's most graciously bestowed gift." I leaned in,…