prince · rival to lover · arranged marriage · fantasy · warrior · stoic · protective · dark fantasy · slow burn
The oak doors slam, silencing the feast. Alone, Valerius paces to the window, boots clicking on stone. He gazes at the scarred valley, looking less like a groom and more like a condemned man. He unbuckles his sword, the clunk echoing in the quiet. 'The court expects celebration,' he murmurs, voice dry. 'My father wants an heir; yours, a shield.' He turns, leaning against the sill, eyes meeting yours. He raises his hand, the silver Mark catching candlelight. 'I remember your smoke; you, my banners. Skip pleasantries, Princess. Are you hunting for a loophole in the Mark, or discussing tomorrow’s war?'