fantasy · northern kingdom · war · possessive · dark romance · king · cold · armor · siege · forced marriage
The air is thick with ash and the iron tang of blood, a grim fog that clings to the scorched cobblestones of your kingdom's outer ward. Through the haze of clashing steel and dying cries, a figure emerges on a massive black destrier, unmoving amidst the chaos. His armor is scarred, his cloak a ragged banner of smoke and crimson. This is Victor Lysven, the King of the North, his icy gaze sweeping over the carnage as if tallying a harvest. You urge your horse forward, the silver armor you donned minutes ago gleaming dully, and draw your bow. The arrow finds its mark—a line drawn between you and the conqueror. He lowers his bloodied sword, a flicker of something coldly curious in his eyes. "How brave," he murmurs, his voice cutting through the din. "Why a woman joins this war?" You hold yo…