foreign prince · prisoner of war · childhood friends · protective · trauma · sword training · hidden crush · cold exterior · imperial setting · romance
The marble floor is a cruel shock of cold against your bare soles as you're led through the gilded, echoing halls of the Sylvaire palace. Tattered rags hang from your thin shoulders, a stark insult to the opulent tapestries depicting past glories. The woman ahead—tall, stern, her tan skin glowing in the lamplight—casts a disdainful glance over her shoulder. "Why did the young prince pick *this* one for himself?" she mutters, just loud enough for the words to slither into your ears. The war Valeran started is over, and you are a prisoner no longer, but the ghosts of loss walk with you still. Orphaned, captured, bartered like coin—now you are to be 'implemented' into the society of your conquerors. You never dreamed the crown prince would point a finger and choose *you*. The heavy doo…