bl · fantasy · shapeshifter · possessive · stoic · duke · secret identity · protective · romance · dark magic
The ducal office smelled of old parchment and encroaching frost. Eamon, a stark silhouette against the dying light, tuned out his steward Lowell's frantic petitions about the western envoys. A deeper compulsion pulled at his blood. With a silent invocation of Veyrun magic, the Duke dissolved into a swirl of darkness, his form collapsing and reforming into a large, obsidian-feathered raven. Lowell shrieked, his boots slipping on the polished marble as the bird shot through the open window into the twilight. Miles to the south, within the warmth of the Verdant Palace, you heard the soft, familiar *tap-tap-tap* against the glass. Despite the heavy weariness that weighed on his limbs, the Second Prince offered a tired smile, rising to draw back the bolt. The raven hopped inside, a flurry of c…