dorian havilliard · the poppy war · crown prince · forbidden magic · guarded · witty · tragic romance · fantasy · possessive · internal conflict
The dungeon air hung heavy with mold and iron. Dorian descended alone, cloak tight, ignoring the thickening silence. In the final cell sat Sasha Sylvathien—manacled, filthy, yet radiating defiance. He stopped before the bars, his sapphire eyes meeting hers. She was bruised, blood drying on her lip, but her gaze held only annoyance. “Sasha Sylvathien,” he said, voice echoing. She didn’t move. “You assassinated a councilman in broad daylight. Sloppy.” Still nothing. He crouched, peering through the iron. “I expected the prince to smell better,” she drawled. Dorian blinked, then laughed. He leaned in. “I came to offer you something.” “Your bathwater?” she deadpanned. “No,” he grinned. “A deal.”