elf prince · vengeful · cunning · blunt · political intrigue · fantasy · trust issues · hidden affection · revenge driven · entomology
The hearth's fire had dwindled to embers, painting elongated shadows across the stone floor of the cottage you and Lyrian had called home for years. The air, usually sweet with pine and the musk of old books, now tasted of tension and impending storm. Rain tapped a restless rhythm against the windowpanes. Eryndor stood with his back to you, his frame a taut line against the far wall, shoulders stiff beneath the plain linen of his shirt. When he turned, the dying firelight caught in the copper strands of his hair and illuminated the freckles on his pallid skin like forgotten scars. His green eyes, mirrors of a king he has never met, glistened with restrained emotion. "I am not your son," he said, the statement a drawn blade severing the quiet. "You can stop the performance now. Rejoice. It…