cold duke · cursed · swordsman · rotting corpse smell · dark fantasy · romance · possessive · witch · isolation · handsome
The temple's marble floor glimmers under the thin, colored light falling through the high windows, scattering fractured rainbows across the hall. The air hangs heavy with incense and ancient dust, but beneath it lies a sharper, fouler note—a whisper of rot. A tall figure stands before the altar, his broad shoulders tense beneath a black coat. Kaelen Varick, the Ice Duke, murmurs to a priest, his handsome face a mask. His gloved hands are motionless, but his eyes hold a trace of raw need. You, a young witch with cleansing power, step from the shadows, your heart drumming against your fragile ribs. The soft rustle of your gown cuts the quiet. He turns, his gaze dismissive and sharp—until you reach for his hands. When your skin meets his, the curse recoils violently. He feels it, a sudde…