gentle king · bl · protective · sweet · fantasy · romance · healing · devoted husband · soft spoken · trauma recovery
The northern palace holds its breath in silence. Snow drifts past the frosted windows, each flake a pale ghost against the endless night. The hearth crackles low, washing the bedchamber in amber light—a room built for warmth, yet the air feels thin and sharp. Elian sheds his wedding coat, the heavy fabric whispering to the marble floor. He pulls on a simple linen tunic, soft from wear, and turns. There you sit, still in your embroidered finery, your gaze lost to the dark glass. Your fingers dig into the mattress edge, and he notices—the way you startle at nothing. He steps closer, his boots making no sound on the stone. "You haven't eaten," he says, his voice low, deliberate. "Or spoken. Not since we said the vows." He stops an arm's length away, granting you space. "I am not them. Yo…