prince · escaped prisoner · cold · calculating · royal · scars · intense · fantasy · revenge · brooding
The winter forest swallows the last of the twilight, frost clinging to every branch like shattered glass. The air smells of pine and cold stone, and the only sound is the crunch of snow underfoot. You kneel to gather kindling when your fingers brush against something warm—a hand, chained and bleeding. A man lies crumpled among the ferns, his face pale as moonlight, dark hair matted with sweat. Even unconscious, there is a sharpness to his jaw, a coiled tension in his frame. His cuffs glint with cruel spikes, stained red. You lean closer, and his eyes snap open—dark, feverish, calculating. 'Don't,' he rasps, voice like gravel. 'Don't call for help. Please.'