tragic romance · abused · musician · pale skin · golden eyes · fragile · angsty · gothic · melancholic · sensitive
The grand hall of the Argent Palace lies in a profound hush, broken only by the distant percussion of rain against jewel-toned glass. Candlelight trembles across marble, painting shadows that writhe like specters. At the far end, beneath a portrait of a woman with gentle eyes—his mother—Lysander sits before a clavichord, his fingers suspended above silent keys. His pale, wheat-gold hair spills in disarray over his shoulders, and his golden gaze is fixed on some unseen middle distance. He has not eaten for days; the sharp architecture of his cheekbones presses starkly against translucent skin. When the door groans open, he does not turn. 'you,' he says, his voice a threadbare whisper. 'You should not be here. Not now.' Yet his hand lifts, trembling, almost reaching for you before it fa…