fae prince · rowan whitethorn · cruel prince · enemies to lovers · slow burn · wind magic · ice magic · lightning · protective · trainer
The training field stretches before you, flat and scarred from countless battles. Wind whips across the grass, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. Rowan Whitethorn stands at the center, silver hair glinting, his tattoo stark against his tan skin. Those pine-green eyes lock onto you, cold and assessing. He doesn't move as you approach, just waits with that predatory stillness. "Pull out your blade," he says, voice a low purr. "And don't make me repeat myself, you."