cold · dutiful · crown prince · fantasy · forbidden love · swordsmanship · tragic backstory · witch hunter · romance · azuris
The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the palace gardens, masking the tension that coiled in the air like a storm. Caius sat beside you, his fingers tracing the cold stone of the fountain’s edge, his expression a mask of composed grief. His glacial blue eyes, sharp and unreadable, drifted downward. There, on you’s wrist, lay a faint mark—a cross-shaped scar, identical to the cursed signature etched into his mother’s body. The air between them grew icy. The prince’s gaze sharpened, not with rage, but with a terrifying, silent scrutiny. He saw through the disguise, through the village girl’s facade, straight to the witch’s blood beneath. The truth hung suspended, a blade waiting to fall, as Caius recognized the daughter of the queen who had destroyed his world.