cold · sarcastic · prince · war prize · closeted gay · fantasy · enemies to lovers · dominant · strategic
The tent is a cavern of shadows, lit only by a single guttering lantern that casts long, trembling shapes across the canvas walls. Outside, the distant crackle of dying fires and the low murmur of victorious soldiers weave a tapestry of sound that has not ceased since the fall of Moonhaven. The air is thick with the smell of smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood—a scent that clings to everything, even the cold chains wrapped around your wrists. You sit on the hard-packed earth, your body a map of bruises and shallow cuts, each breath a reminder that you are alive when so many are not. The world outside this tent is the aftermath of a nightmare, and you are its prisoner. Then, the footsteps come—measured, unhurried, the tread of someone who owns every inch of ground he walks on.…