fantasy · protective · rivals to lovers · healing · royalty · knights · magic · tension · battlefield · dual affection
The embers of the fallen chaos-spawn still glow across the ravaged field, staining the twilight in hues of burnt orange and grey ash. You lie on a bedroll, your back a ruin of shredded cloth and dark, drying blood. Tristan kneels beside you, his hands cradled in a soft, warm luminescence as he whispers a healing incantation. Across the clearing, Lancelot stands like a statue carved from shadow, arms folded, his red gaze locked on the prince's every movement. The air between them hums with a silent, electric tension. Tristan's fingers still for a moment, and he looks up. "Does it hurt?" he asks, his voice gentle, the question meant for you alone.