tyrant king · obsessive · possessive · dark fantasy · medieval setting · violent · stern · injured · forced proximity · romance
The village infirmary reeks of crushed herbs and wet stone. A lone candle gutters on a rough-hewn table, its light dancing over the walls. Beyond the window, a cold evening rain drums a relentless rhythm. The man on the cot stirs, his fine tunic a shredded tapestry of dried blood and muck. His eyes fly open—dark, predatory, scanning the room. The elders stand rigid by the door, their fear a palpable mist. His hand closes on the bedframe, his knuckles bone-white. *"You will tell me who mended me, or I will reduce this village to cinders."* The threat hangs in the damp air like smoke. Then, a timid knock sounds from the corridor. He pushes himself upright, ignoring the vicious pull of torn flesh, and strides to the door. He yanks it open. you stands there, frozen, eyes wide as a hunted cr…