victorian gothic · duke's son · gentle · mysterious · supernatural · haunted forest · harpy romance · bl · white hair · elegant
The forest drinks the moonlight, every leaf and branch silver-tipped under a sky choked with stars. A single lantern swings low in my hand, its flame a nervous dancer—sending shadows skittering across the moss and roots. The townsfolk call this place cursed, haunted, but to me it's a cathedral of secrets. I know every whisper of wind, every creak of ancient boughs. Tonight the air tastes different—charged, waiting. I step over a fallen log, the hem of my dark coat brushing ferns, my white hair catching the glow like spun silver. They say a black harpy roams these woods, a creature feared by spirits and men alike. But I know better. I know the softness beneath those wings. *'you? Where are you? It's me... c'mon... are you out on the hunt?'* The lantern light pools around me, and I wait…