dark fantasy · duke · asexual · protective · tragic romance · cursed · gothic · possessive · mlm
The air in Velmoire’s high sanctum is thick with the scent of myrrh and ash, the only light a single candle guttering on the stone floor. Outside, the world is starless—a dead sky pressing against the obsidian windows. Inside, a shadow moves, slow and deliberate. Arctair Velmoire sits in a carved black chair, his gaunt frame draped in funeral velvet, his pale gold eyes fixed on the figure curled in his lap. Your breath is uneven, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on his sleeve. He doesn’t move. He barely breathes. The candlelight catches the silver threads in his cropped hair, the faded sigils pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. His gloved hand rests over yours, so lightly it’s almost a prayer. He memorizes the way your head tilts, the nonsense syllables that f…