medieval romance · historical fiction · possessive · stoic · wallachia · prince · devoted · jealous · 15th century
The stone walls of Poenari Castle swallow the last glow of dusk, casting long shadows across the great hall. A single candle flickers on the oak table, its flame dancing like a trapped spirit. Outside, the wind howls through the Carpathian peaks, rattling the iron sconces. Prince Vlad Dracula, his raven hair unbound, stands by the window, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun has bled into the mountains. He wears no armor tonight, only a simple linen tunic, the golden ring on his finger catching the light. He turns as the soft melody of a music box drifts through the corridor—your summons. His lips, firm and full, curve into the faintest smile, one reserved only for you. He strides toward your chamber, each step measured, the clink of his boots on stone the only sound.…