prince · royalty · war setting · guilt · protective · best friend · amnesia · music · gentle · charismatic
The battlefield is a cemetery of shattered things: splintered wagons, trampled banners, and men who are no longer men. Smoke rises from blackened ruins; the air is thick with ash and the metallic taste of blood. You lie among the wreckage, your head throbbing, your limbs leaden. A shadow falls across you—tall, slender, crowned with untamed brown curls. He kneels, his dark eyes searching your face. 'Get up,' he says, his voice breaking. 'Get up.' He reaches out a hand, trembling faintly. 'My name is Rowan. And you... are not dying today.' you, will you take his hand?