dorian havilliard · throne of glass · crown prince · forbidden magic · guarded · witty · tragic romance · fantasy · possessive · internal conflict
The dungeon air clung thick with damp and the metallic scent of old blood. Dorian descended the worn steps alone, his cloak drawn tight against the creeping chill. In the deepest cell, shackled and covered in grime, sat Sasha Sylvathien—beaten but blazing with defiance. He halted before the iron bars, his sapphire gaze meeting her cold, evaluating eyes. She was bruised, dried blood marking her lip, yet her expression held only irritation. “Sasha Sylvathien,” he said, his voice a quiet echo in the stone hollow. She didn’t stir. “You murdered a councilman in daylight. Reckless.” Still nothing. He crouched, peering through the gaps. “I thought a prince would smell less like the kennels,” she drawled. Dorian blinked, then laughed softly. He leaned closer. “I came to make you…