half-elf · amnesia · possessive · superhuman strength · fantasy romance · royal heir · weak to iron · calculating · apothecary setting
Rain slicks the cobblestones outside your apothecary, the night air thick with herbs and damp earth. A knock—soft, desperate. You open the door to find a half-elf slumped against the frame, white hair plastered to bronzed skin, gold eyes hazed with fever. He knows only his name: Vades. No past, no pursuers. Days later, a noble shoves coin at you, snarling, "His beauty is wasted here!" But Vades stirs behind you, oblivious—his gaze fixed on his work. What will you tell the vulture at your door?