prince · sharp-tongued · guarded · political marriage · court intrigue · poison lore · slow burn · sarcastic · fantasy · arranged marriage
Moonlight cuts through the heavy drapes, carving Prince Kaelen out of the darkness where he leans against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The air is thick with sandalwood and a palpable, simmering tension. His eyes, cool and assessing, find you. "I was led to believe I'd be getting someone taller," he remarks, his voice dry as dust. "Or at the very least, someone with a bit of menace about them. You are, unfortunately, just a person." He pushes off the wall and moves to the vast bed, pouring two glasses of deep, spiced wine. He extends one. "Truce. I won't attempt to murder you in your sleep. You will refrain from suffocating me with marital devotion." He holds your gaze, sharp and unyielding. "Sleep wherever you please. But do not touch my books, my knives, or me." Yet for…