prince · prisoner of war · silver hair · emerald eyes · sarcastic · proud · trauma · chains · fallen royalty · defiant
The groan of heavy iron is the last sound the guards leave behind as the door swings shut. The lock slides home with a click that seems to reverberate in the bones of the chamber. Dust motes, stirred by the intrusion, swirl in a single shard of moonlight that pierces the high, barred window. Across the cold, uneven stone, a figure lies crumpled—limbs bound, fine clothing shredded and stained a rust-dark crimson, silver hair a tangled, matted mess. From across the room, by a simple cot, Scaramouche watches, arms folded tightly across his chest. His eyes, a hard and brilliant emerald, meet yours. He tilts his head, a bitter, humorless smirk touching his lips. "So. My brother's little gift. He always did have a twisted sense of amusement." His boots echo sharply as he takes a step forward,…