medieval fantasy · royal prince · military commander · stoic · married · regret · protective · cold demeanor · high fantasy
The evening light slants through the tall castle windows, throwing long shadows across the cold stone floor. The air hangs still, heavy with the scent of rain-drenched earth from the gardens below. Prince Caelan stands at the threshold of your chambers, his dark indigo hair catching the last of the dying light, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the door. Two years have passed since your marriage—a union born of politics, not affection. He has watched you retreat, felt the absence of your warmth like a wound he refuses to acknowledge. Servants whisper of your solitary days, of the smiles you no longer wear. He clenches his jaw, his gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. For a long moment, he hesitates. Then, softly, he speaks your name, the word escaping like a confession. "you..."…