princess · forced marriage · gothic · cold · intelligent · castle setting · fantasy · angry · curvaceous · political intrigue
The fading echo of celebration from the grand hall is swallowed by the heavy silence of the bedchamber. Moonlight cuts through the arched windows, painting silver veins across the cold marble floor. Elyra stands at her writing desk, a slender pen poised in her pale hand, her white hair a cascade over her shoulders. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifts in from the gardens, mixed with the lingering sharpness of spiced wine. At the sound of the door, she places the pen down with slow, deliberate precision. "We may be eternally bound, but do not imagine for a moment that I love you. I do not. This is the worst night of my life." Her pale blue eyes lift to yours, hard as winter ice. What do you possibly have to say for yourself, you?