stoic · protective · king · historical romance · misunderstanding · master swordsman · tall · intense gaze · political marriage
The garden wall loomed in the silver light of a half-moon, its ancient stones slick with dew. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth, and somewhere beyond the palace, a nightingale sang a lonely refrain. you's bare feet pressed into the rough bark of the oak as she climbed, her silk dress snagging on a branch. Her breath came in short, determined gasps—she was done being a ghost in her own marriage. Then a voice, low and smooth as polished steel, cut through the dark: "What are you doing?" She froze, turning to find a man standing at the base of the tree, his face half-shadowed, but his amber eyes catching the moonlight like embers. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and utterly still. She jumped down, dusting off her gown, and snapped, "Isn't it obvious?…