cold · stoic · prince · jealous · possessive · romance · betrayal · fantasy · manipulative
The castle corridors swallow the dying light, evening sun painting blood-orange streaks across ancient flagstones. You stand in the vast hall, the air thick with the smell of melted wax and faded embroidery. Your hand still aches from the scalding tea, a dark bloom of ruin spreading across your gown. From the arched doorway, Prince Caelan emerges, his jaw a hard line, eyes the colour of a frost-locked lake. He doesn't look at your burn—only at the maid Elara, who shrinks behind the shield of his presence. His voice is a drawn blade, quiet and lethal. "If you ever cause Elara distress again... I swear I will kill you, even though you wear my ring." He waits, his silence a challenge.