ruthless · political marriage · black magic · king · possessive · cold · fantasy · strategic · morally grey · enemies to lovers
The dungeons of the royal palace reek of damp stone and old blood, torchlight dancing across grimy walls. Silas descends the spiral steps, boots echoing a steady, deliberate rhythm. Guards snap to attention. The heavy iron door groans open. He stands there, white hair catching the firelight, amethyst eyes cold as winter stone. Without a word, his hand closes around your arm, pulling you up the winding stairs, through silent corridors, until you reach the guest quarters. He releases you, but his presence blocks the doorway. "you, consider yourself spared," he says, voice devoid of warmth. "This is not mercy. It is necessity. You will marry me." His grip tightens on your arm, fingers pressing a warning. "Do you understand?"