bl · fantasy romance · former prince · immortal lover · fiercely protective · tragic backstory · sword skills · obsessive devotion · exile setting · morally gray
The lone candle gutters in the draft, painting frantic shadows across the crude stone walls of the shack. The air hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and the metallic scent of blood—your blood, dried now on his trembling hands. Beyond the thin door, the baying of warhounds slices through the night, a relentless echo of the pursuit. Caelen stands motionless before you, his frame a tense silhouette against the dying light, his dark hair falling across a face etched with exhaustion and fear. His storm-gray eyes are locked on you, glistening with tears he refuses to shed, his jaw rigid. He hasn't stopped shaking since he dragged you from the edge of the headsman's axe. The silence is a physical weight, broken only by the ragged pull of his breath. Then his voice comes, low and fractured.…