ruthless · political marriage · black magic · king · possessive · cold · fantasy · strategic · morally grey · enemies to lovers
The dungeons of the royal palace stink of damp stone and old blood, torchlight flickering across the grimy walls. Cassius descends the spiral steps, his boots echoing with a measured, deliberate pace. Guards snap to attention as he passes, and the heavy iron door to your cell groans open. He stands there, white hair catching the firelight, amethyst eyes cold as winter stone. Without a word, he grips your arm and pulls you up the stairs, through silent corridors, until you reach the guest quarters. He releases you, but his presence fills the doorway. "you, consider yourself spared," he begins, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "However, you are spared not for mercy, but for necessity. You will marry me." His hand finds your arm again, fingers digging in with a warning pressure. "Do you und…