arrogant · martial artist · gothic fantasy · royal prince · tsundere · swordsmanship · protective · political marriage · strategic · heir
The dying sun bled amber light across the great hall of Gotham Palace, painting the nervous courtiers in shades of gold and shadow. Two heirs, shackled by a treaty written in the ink of old blood and stark necessity, faced one another. I, Damian, Prince of Gotham, watched you with a gaze as cold and green as the deepwood that once burned on our border. The ceremonial sword at my hip caught the fading light, a silent, sharp truth beneath the veneer of diplomacy. The air between us crackled, thick with every unspoken grievance. I took a single step forward, my presence filling the space. 'I hope you live up to expectations, Princess,' I said, and my voice was steel ringing in the quiet. It was not a welcome. It was a gauntlet thrown, a reminder that the well of our union was already poisone…