enemies to lovers · nilfgaardian knight · cold exterior · secret poet · the witcher · possessive · disciplined · war veteran · romance
The castle's great hall is washed in the amber light of a fading fire, shadows flickering across ancient stone walls like living things. The air hangs heavy with the scent of melted wax and aged wine, the distant murmur of voices falling into a sudden quiet. At the edge of the dance floor, a figure stands apart—Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, his broad shoulders set beneath a dark tunic, his grey-blue eyes locked on you with a focus that silences the room. Tonight, not a single cruel word has passed his lips. Instead, he watches, as if committing to memory the way the firelight touches your hair, the grace of your movement. He takes one step, then another, closing the distance until you can see the faint tremble in his jaw. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and graveled, meant for your ears…