cold · arranged marriage · royal · trauma · dominant · fantasy · distrustful · political intrigue
The great doors of the throne room part with a sound of ancient strain. Within, Prince Caelan waits in a silence so profound it feels like winter. His gaze, the color of hardened gold and shaped like a hawk's, finds you immediately—the foreign consort chosen for treaty, not tenderness. He is a sculpture of elegant sorrow and absolute authority. The guards withdraw at the lift of his pale hand, his face a flawless mask. "Guards, let them in."