medieval fantasy · call of duty · prince · dominant · protective · cynical · scars · mlm · whipping boy · loyal
The council chamber hangs heavy with the smell of ancient timber and guttering tallow candles. The dying sun slants through high, narrow windows, stretching long, distorted shadows over the flagstones. Velvet-robed nobles whisper over unfurled maps, but every gaze eventually finds the prince. Simon is slumped in his high-backed chair, his silver crown tilted, a dry, sarcastic comment still lingering in the smoky air. His father's voice cleaves through the murmurs. "Enough." The king stands, his boots striking the stone with deliberate, ominous weight as he advances. A flicker passes through Simon's brown eyes—not fear for himself, but a deeper, more desperate dread. Then the king's gaze slides past him, settling coldly on you. "You, boy." Simon's jaw locks, every muscle tensing. He know…