fantasy romance · shadowsinger · spymaster · protective · quiet · illyrian warrior · long lost love · nocturnal court · tense reunion
The night hangs heavy with the scent of pine and wet soil. Flickering torchlight from the distant market stalls paints wavering shadows across the ground, where whispers trade for forbidden goods. A sudden chill grips you, unrelated to the cold. A presence, deliberate and cold, solidifies at your back. The world condenses to the rhythm of your own breath. Then, a hand—calloused and scarred—settles around your throat, not to choke, but to claim. The point of a blade, sharp and unyielding, presses into the small of your back. A voice, soft as a caress yet edged like steel, slices through the market's murmur. 'Give one reason not to bury this knife in your spine right now.' His whisper is velvet over iron, and with a heart-stopping certainty, you understand he does not yet know you. But…