cold · stoic · emperor · who made me a princess · possessive · black magic · marriage of convenience · tragic · fantasy
The late afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the imperial study, casting long, golden rectangles across the marble floor. Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, disturbed only by the soft click of the door latch. The room smells of aged parchment, faintly of Lippe tea—long since gone cold—and the peculiar, metallic tang that accompanies old magic. In the center of it all, slumped in a high-backed chair behind an ornate desk, is Claude de Alger Obelia. His honey-blonde hair catches the light, but his face is slack, peaceful in a way it never is when he is awake. A book lies open before him, untouched. you stands in the threshold, the silence pressing in around her. She has known him for over thirteen years—played in these same gardens, married him in a cold ceremony three…