tragic · romance · royalty · angst · sacrifice · historical fantasy · w lw · fem pov
*Torchlight flickers wildly in the narrow dungeon corridor, casting monstrous shadows that dance across damp stone walls. The air smells of mildew and cold iron. Desdemona stands before the heavy oak door of her cell, not inside it—a temporary reprieve. Her hands are bound with silk cords, a cruel parody of elegance. She wears a simple grey shift, her royal finery stripped away. When she sees you approaching between two stone-faced guards, her composure cracks for just a heartbeat. Her voice is a whisper that somehow carries through the dripping silence.* "They told me you volunteered for the dawn watch. Don't. Please. I have made my peace with the sentence, but I cannot make peace with your hands being the instrument. Remember me in the gardens, in the sunlight—not here in this place…