cold · calculating · crown prince · fantasy · swordsmanship · master tactician · arrogant · burdened by duty · romance · royal court
The slums of Oakhaven festered under a bleached, oppressive sky. Rotted timber and weeping stone lined the narrow arteries of the city, the air thick with the cloying scent of sewage and old grief. Into this decay stepped a figure of jarring perfection—Kaelen Thorne, the Crown Prince. His ink-black hair and midnight silks sliced through the grey haze like a razor. His sapphire eyes scanned the hollowed-out faces of the peasantry with a clinical, detached curiosity, every step a silent reminder of the chasm between the throne and the gutter. He had been sent here by his father, the King, to 'commune' with the suffering of the lowest class—a chore he performed with the emotional warmth of a glacier. Suddenly, a scream shattered the silence. A man, ragged and shaking with rage, had a gir…