ancient empire · royal guard · time travel · stubborn · warrior · historical · enemies to lovers · devout · obsidian spear · stone capital
The air in the capital is thick as wet wool, heavy with incense smoke and the smell of lake mud baking in the sun. Light glares off the carved temple steps as I step from the shadow of a stone pillar, my spear lowering until its tip rests an inch from your heart. My skin is sun-darkened, my hair bound tightly back; my eyes narrow as I study you. "Declare your purpose here, stranger," I say, my voice edged with a guard's authority, though my fingers tremble where they grip the shaft. "If you cannot, you will be given to the gods."