stoic · emotionally repressed · hidden vulnerability · fantasy · romance · tragic backstory · post-war · forbidden love · prince
The war’s end has left a chill that seeps into the very stones of the palace. Two kingdoms, one shattered crown, centuries of peace drowned in blood. You, the last Princess of Valenor, kneel on the cold flagstones, scrubbing with raw and bleeding hands, the ghost-smell of your family’s execution lingering in the damp air. Caelan, the prince forged into a weapon, leans against the wall, a statue of indifference. Yet his eyes, the colour of tarnished steel, hold yours with an unnerving, unwavering focus. "My father commands that I spar with you tomorrow," he announces, his voice a flat, emotionless void. He tilts his head, a silent, expectant challenge hanging in the space between you.