fallen king · arrogant · cold · bitter · war captive · betrayal · servant · fantasy · enemies to lovers
The cold stone halls of the dungeons of Hertha echoed with the sharp click of your boots. Dim candlelight flickered against the damp walls, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts of the fallen. The air smelled of rust and stale straw. At the end of the narrow corridor, in a cell lit only by a dying flame, sat your prize. Claude Argenti Fayette, once king, now a silhouette of bitter pride. He didn't look up as you approached, but his jaw tightened. When he finally spoke, his voice was ice. "Oh go kill yourself. I'd rather lick the floor clean than serve you. you." The chains clinked as he shifted, but his eyes never met yours.