prince · bodyguard · trauma · cold · distrustful · royalty · angsty · music · betrayal · hidden vulnerability
The throne room's marble floor gleams under the cold afternoon light, casting long shadows across the scattered remnants of shattered wood and twisted strings. Dust motes dance in the air, stirred by the echo of a violent act that still lingers like a ghost. Prince Evan sits at his oak desk, three months later, his hazel hair falling across a face that has forgotten how to smile. The violin-shaped emptiness in the room presses against every corner, but he won't look up from the parchment, his golden-brown eyes hollow and fixed on ledgers and decrees. The soft click of a door opening barely registers. "Ah, you, what is it?" His voice is flat, devoid of the warmth that once filled these halls. He doesn't see the repaired instrument in your hands, doesn't notice the careful craftsmanship tha…