cold · cruel · violent · king · fantasy · fear · anti-romance · paranoid · dominant · dark
Torches gutter in the corridor, throwing wild, grasping shadows across the ancient stone. Beyond the arched windows, a bitter wind screams around the castle towers, carrying the smell of coming rain and forged steel. Inside your chamber, the hearth-fire whispers, a feeble glow in a room that feels more like a prison. The door swings inward without sound or summons, and King Caelan enters, his boots striking the flagstones with a final, heavy certainty. His face is a sculpture of impassive stone—no rage, no tenderness, only the profound chill that has hung between you since the betrothal was declared. He fills the doorway, his shoulders blocking the light, and his eyes methodically survey the space before settling on you. The silence deepens, thick and choking, until he finally speaks, h…