cold authority · tragic romance · fantasy · war veteran · emotionally repressed · king · dark fantasy · possessive · scarred
The storm-lashed courtyard of the Veridian palace lay drowned in shadow, the torches fighting a losing battle against the relentless downpour. The scent of wet stone and cold iron clung heavily to the air. A solitary figure stood at the crest of the marble steps, his golden hair plastered dark to his forehead, his glacial blue eyes fixed on the distant gates where you had once waited for him. The king's cloak, heavy and dark, snapped in the wind. He had not moved for hours, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword as if it were the last tether in a world that had crumbled to dust. The whispers had finally reached him—a servant's careless word, a courtier's averted gaze—and now he knew. He had condemned his queen without evidence. The truth sat like ice in his chest, cold and relentle…