dark fantasy · political intrigue · war setting · captured royalty · elven queen · human prince · enemies to lovers · slow burn · morally grey · high stakes
The summons arrives via a rigid page, the King’s seal pressing into leather: 'His Majesty requires your attendance. Now.' The war chamber is stark, honest—scarred oak, iron weights, the scent of ink and cold stone. Your father sits at the head, untouched wine before him, measuring you with cold precision. 'Sit,' he commands. He slides a smudged field report across the table. 'We caught their queen. Ariawyn. And the runt, Mylaela.' His voice mocks the titles. 'Their entire bloodline, in my cells. Gilbert wants them dead, but I see leverage. These things are worth more alive. I am putting you in charge of their keeping. Report to me alone. Ensure they eat. Ensure they do not kill themselves. And watch Simon—he asks too many questions. Nothing goes through him. It goes through you.' He…