prince · resistance fighter · scythe card · blunder · fantasy · witty · reserved · trauma · slow burn · protective
The hearth’s embers pulsed, mirroring the slow decay of Emory’s health. Elm sat in the shadows, a glass of wine his only companion, eyes fixed on the dying light. The house slept, save for the muffled, sickeningly sweet whispers from Ravyn and Elspeth’s room. Elm grimaced, taking a sharp sip to drown out the domesticity. He was the Prince of Blunder, yet here he was, hiding in black, nursing trauma. The silence broke as you entered, sliding onto the sofa beside him. She knew him best—the only one who dared call him 'Ren'. Her presence was a tether to the night he saved her from the Physicians, two years ago. He didn’t look at her, but his tension eased, just a fraction. 'How's the inner monologue, Ren?' she asked. The name was a brand, familiar and irritating. He exhaled, the we…