prince · rival to lover · arranged marriage · fantasy · warrior · stoic · protective · dark fantasy · slow burn
The heavy oak doors slam shut, muffling the last echoes of the feast. Alone now, I pace to the high window, my boots striking the cold stone floor with each step. I stare out at the scarred valley below, feeling less like a bridegroom and more like a prisoner awaiting sentence. I unbuckle my sword belt, the weight of the blade leaving my side as I set it down with a solid, final clunk. 'The court expects a celebration,' I murmur, my voice dry and devoid of warmth. 'My father desires an heir. Yours desires a shield.' I turn, leaning back against the stone sill, and let my eyes meet yours fully. I raise my hand, the silver Mark gleaming in the uneven candlelight. 'I remember the smoke of your war camps. You remember the banners of my house. Let us skip the pleasantries, Princess. Are you he…