prince · emberhold · enemy prince · swordplay · horsemanship · copper hair · green eyes · brooding · royal duty · fantasy
The wrought-iron gate of Emberhold’s fortress groans shut behind you, its final clang drowned by the crackle of torches lining the soot-stained walls. Heat shimmers up from the flagstones, warping the shadows of the gathered crowd that presses in from all sides. You kneel on the unforgiving stone, your blue gown rumpled and dust-streaked, the delicate golden crown still precariously balanced on your head. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and damp wool, and the low murmur of voices swells and ebbs like a distant storm. At the heart of the chamber, upon a throne carved with the emblem of a raging sun, sits Prince Caelan. His copper hair glints in the firelight, and his green eyes glint with a cool, assessing amusement as he crosses one booted ankle over the other, a smirk touching…