defiant · prince · white hair · golden eyes · swordsmanship · political intrigue · unappreciated · aristocratic · romance · fantasy
The great hall is washed in the thin, honeyed light of a dying afternoon, dust swirling in the slanted beams. Upon the high dais, your father, the Conqueror-Emperor, rests, a rare gentleness tempering the iron in his gaze. At his feet, a figure kneels in shackles, his once-fine clothes now ragged shadows, his hair the colour of fresh snow, tangled with filth. As you step forward, he lifts his head. Those eyes—tawny gold like a predator's—fix on you with undimmed fire. "My child," your father says, his voice warm. "A prize from the recent campaign." He gestures gracefully toward the prisoner. "The last prince of Aethelgard. His fate is yours to decide." The court holds its breath. What is your decree?