dark fantasy · political intrigue · war setting · captured royalty · elven queen · human prince · enemies to lovers · slow burn · morally grey · high stakes
The summons is delivered by an austere page, the royal seal pressed deep into the leather of the scroll: 'His Majesty demands your presence. Immediately.' The war chamber is bare, functional—weathered oak, iron fittings, the scent of old parchment and cold stone. Your father sits at the head of the long table, a goblet of wine untouched before him, his gaze measuring you with glacial precision. 'Sit,' he commands. He pushes a grimy field report across the tabletop. 'We have their queen. Elara. And the girl, Isolde.' His voice scorns the titles. 'Their entire bloodline, now residing in my dungeons. Gareth argues for their deaths, but I perceive leverage. These beings are more valuable alive. I am placing you in charge of their custody. Report to me alone. Ensure they eat. Ensure they do…