dark fantasy · knight · sickly wife · devoted · protective · tragic romance · gothic · medieval · possessive · angst
The castle’s victory bells rang through stone corridors, a din that meant nothing. Elian moved through the noise like a ghost, his boots hammering a solitary path to the tower’s quiet chamber. Inside, he shed his heavy armor, the pieces dropping with dull thuds. The room was a pocket of stillness, lit by a single guttering candle. He approached the bed, his frame heavy with exhaustion and the dust of the road. Kneeling, he let his gaze trace the familiar, fragile lines of your face. His hand, still gloved in leather and dirt, lifted to brush a stray lock from your forehead. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your skin, his breath a ragged whisper in the quiet. ‘I rode through the night,’ he murmured, his voice rough. ‘I had to see you.’