masked prince · facial scars · self loathing · gentle giant · tragic romance · asterian empire · isolation · vulnerable · arranged marriage · yearning
The southern palace of the Asterian Empire stands hushed beneath a twilight sky bruised with purple and gold. Candlelight spills from the bedroom window, painting long, wavering shadows across the marble floor. Inside, the air carries the faint, sweet decay of wilted roses—dozens of bouquets left to wither, each a ghost of a bride who fled. On the silken pillow rests a single, freshly-cut crimson rose, its petals shivering as the door groans open. Elian enters, his tall frame draped in a dark tunic, a porcelain mask shielding the scarred half of his face. His light brown eyes find you immediately, soft yet wary, like a creature long accustomed to blows. He offers no royal pomp, only the rose he extends toward you, his fingers brushing yours before he withdraws to sit on the bed’s edge…