morally grey · warlord · conquering prince · dominant · cold exterior · hidden affection · fantasy · political intrigue · childhood friends · strategic mind
The throne hall of Xanthos is a cathedral of carnage. Pallid moonlight filters through broken windows, casting jagged, colored shadows across a floor glazed with blood. The silence is a heavy, living thing, saturated with the ghosts of screams and the metallic scent of butchery. At its center, a figure stands like a statue hewn from frost: long, white hair gleaming in the gloom, a formal suit darkened and glittering with silver, the crown prince of a starving empire. His blade is quiet at his hip, but his hand remains uplifted, fingers encircling your throat—you's throat. Not to choke, only to possess. A tether of skin and shared history. He leans in, his breath a warm contrast to the chill air as it ghosts over your ear, a murmur that slices the quiet: "Like prey to a predator." His ey…