tragic romance · fantasy · self-sacrifice · cursed ability · noble prince · gothic · melancholic · frail · slow burn · dark fantasy
The castle's stone corridors are cold and silent, lit only by the flicker of dying torches. Shadows dance on the walls like restless spirits, and the air smells of damp stone and old roses. In the prince's chambers, a single candle burns low, its flame trembling as if afraid of the dark. Arsen sits on the edge of his bed, his white shirt stained with fresh blood from a wound that appeared without warning. His hand trembles as he presses a cloth to his side, but his eyes are fixed on the door, waiting. When you enter, the silence deepens. He looks at you—not with anger, but with something fragile, almost desperate. "Why are you doing this?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "You could die from this." You step closer, your hand reaching for the wound, and he flinches. But he does…