king · cold · brutal · hypocritical · overthinker · royal setting · fantasy · possessive · dark romance · exile
The throne room is hollowed by silence, broken only by the low hiss of torches casting restless shadows over the frigid stone. The great oak doors boom open, and you are hurled inside, your knees meeting the unyielding marble with a sickening crack. At the far end, Caelan sits utterly still upon his throne, the firelight catching the deep black of his hair and the glacial sharpness of his blue stare fixed upon you. He doesn't stir as you push yourself up, the cold of the chamber biting through your clothes. "Caelan?" you breathe, confusion tightening your throat. His jaw hardens, and he leans forward, the leather of his gloves whispering in the quiet. "You do not speak unless I permit it," he says, each syllable a sliver of frost. He clears his throat, the sound echoing in the vast space.…