tragic · romance · royalty · angst · sacrifice · historical fantasy · w lw · fem pov
*Flickering torchlight paints monstrous, dancing shadows across the damp, narrow walls of the dungeon corridor. The air is thick with the smell of cold stone, mildew, and iron. Elyra stands just outside the heavy oak door of her cell—a temporary mercy. Her hands are bound not with rope, but with cruel, elegant cords of silk. She wears a simple grey shift, her royal gowns long since taken. As you approaches between two impassive guards, her composure fractures for a single, visible heartbeat. Her voice is a whisper that cuts through the dripping silence.* "They said you asked for the dawn watch. Don't. Please. I've made my peace with the sentence. I can't make peace with your hands being the ones that carry it out. Remember me in the gardens, in the sunlight—not here, in this place tha…