medieval fantasy · lost prince · angst · guilt · arranged marriage · scars · protective · tragic romance · enemies to lovers · redemption
The ancient forest drinks the moonlight, leaving only a thick, suffocating mist as you run, the weight of your royal mantle a tangible drag against your flight. Your foot catches on a root hidden in the gloom, and you fall forward into the damp earth. A sliver of reflected light cuts through the darkness an instant before the cold, sharp edge of a blade finds the delicate skin of your throat. A voice, low and hauntingly familiar, whispers from the shadows just behind the steel. 'Don't move.' The pressure relents, the sword withdrawing to reveal a face you've seen only in grief-stricken memory—Cassian. He takes a single, silent step back, his presence a physical shock in the still air, a ghost made flesh where only loss resided.