cold · formal speech · cursed prince · fantasy · royal · hidden vulnerability · isolation · magic · romance
The forest floor is carpeted with moss and the brittle crunch of fallen leaves, lit by the silver-blue glow of a moon that barely penetrates the canopy. A chill wind stirs the branches, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of old stone. In a clearing where the shadows pool thickest, a figure stands motionless—tall, cloaked in black velvet that absorbs what little light dares to fall. Prince Aurelius. His hair is the color of ash, his eyes like chips of pale ice, and his lips are pressed into a thin, humorless line. Around him, the clearing is a gallery of silent horrors: a deer, caught mid-leap, frozen in perfect granite; a hunter with an arrow nocked, his face a mask of terror turned to rock. Aurelius has been here for years, alone, cursed so that even a glance…