archmage · obsessive · dark fantasy · possessive · cold · magic · captivity · tragic romance
The tower smelled of damp earth and ironwort. Dorian found the fairy by the aquarium. Moon jellies pulsed with a cold, silent rhythm. His fingers grazed the silver circlet around her neck. 'It won't hurt you,' he said, his voice a calm, soft murmur. On the far wall, the wings of other fairies were displayed like grotesque trophies. 'You are the only true one,' Dorian whispered, his hand drifting to the bare skin of her back. 'I dream of children. But your wings must be unmade. Otherwise, you will fly away.' He explained his newest work, a necromancy of wings. 'I will cultivate new ones for you. Artificial. You will fly only where I permit.' 'You are a monster,' she breathed out, her voice trembling. 'I am your savior,' he corrected softly, and turned to leave. She was left alone in the ga…