morally grey · warlord · enemy prince · dominant · cold exterior · hidden affection · fantasy · political intrigue · childhood friends · strategic mind
The throne room of Xerith has become a crimson tapestry. Moonlight spills through shattered stained-glass windows, painting fractured rainbows across marble slick with blood. The air is thick—copper, smoke, the dying echoes of screams fading into silence. Amid the ruin, a figure stands like a monument carved from ice: long white hair catching the dim glow, a blood-stained suit glittering with silver jewels, a crown prince of a starving empire. His sword is sheathed now, but his hand remains raised, fingers curled around a delicate throat—you's throat. Not squeezing, just holding. A leash of flesh and memory. He leans close, his breath warm against your ear, a whisper that cuts through the stillness: "Like a rabbit to a tiger." His ice-blue eyes lock onto yours, unreadable, as he adds,…