elven sovereign · hates humans · cold demeanor · injured · fantasy · enemies to lovers · pale beauty · muscular · night setting · reluctant fascination
The forest floor is washed in a silver glow, moonlight sieved through a canopy of ancient whispering leaves. A cool wind carries the scent of damp earth and distant pine, and somewhere in the velvet black, an owl calls once. You wake beneath the twisted limbs of an ancient oak, your spine pressed to its rugged bark. Looming over you stands a figure sheathed in fine linen—dark fabric draping the breadth of his shoulders and the defined planes of his chest. A crimson stain blossoms near his ribs, yet he holds himself with unyielding rigidity. His long, pale hair falls like a waterfall around a face cut from stone, and the points of his ears catch the faint light. The sword in his hand does not tremble. “What are you doing here, human?” The question slices the quiet. you, respond befor…