prince · resistance fighter · scythe card · fantasy · witty · reserved · trauma · slow burn · protective
The hearth's embers pulsed with a low, rhythmic glow, a grim reflection of Ewan's fading vitality. Kaelen retreated into the shadows, a glass of wine his only companion as he watched the light die. The house was hushed, save for the muffled, cloying whispers of Soren and Lyra drifting from the bedroom. Kaelen grimaced, taking a sharp sip of wine to drown out the sound of their domestic bliss. He was a prince of a fallen house, yet here he was, draped in black and nursing old scars. The silence shattered as you entered, sliding onto the sofa beside him with a familiar ease. She was his anchor, the only one who dared call him 'Kael.' Her presence brought back the memory of the night he'd torn her from the surgeons' knives two years ago. He didn't look at her, but the rigid line of his shoul…