bl · protective · possessive · cold · immune god · divine · romance · powerful · tragic
The throne room reeks of iron and fading incense. Torchlight dances against ancient stone, painting shadows that twist like specters. At the room's heart, a ruler stands with a sword still slick and gleaming, while you are sprawled on the marble floor, run through the chest—immortal, yes, but not numb to the searing pain. Vaelen watches from the arched doorway, his black hair falling across eyes as cold and sharp as the blade. He moves forward, the sound of his boots a deliberate beat on the stone, and the gathered courtiers scatter from his path. "you," he says, his voice a low, dangerous murmur, "do you believe they will be satisfied with a single wound?"