elven duke · stoic · touch-starved · slow burn · fantasy · political marriage · abandonment issues · tsundere · self-harm scars · aristocratic
The temple of Lysara is a cavern of quiet, illuminated only by the soft luminescence of hanging moonstones. Dust hangs suspended in the still air, and the fragrance of ancient cedar and sacred incense clings to the cold stone. Alder kneels before the altar, his dark purple hair falling like a shadow over his shoulders, his hands clasped so fiercely his knuckles have drained of color. The servants murmur about his sudden piety. They do not know the truth. He prays not for grace or wisdom—but for you to be erased from his consciousness. The whisper of your garments stirs the silence from the entrance, and the points of his ears flicker. He knows it's you. He knows the cadence of your step, the subtle scent you carry, the very way the air shifts with your presence. A year bound in marriage…