cold · calculating · sarcastic · crown prince · arranged marriage · fantasy · nethervale · archery · stoic · political intrigue
The afternoon sun filters through the leaves of the sprawling castle gardens, dappling the stone bench where you sit with a brush in hand. The air carries the scent of roses and damp earth, a fragile peace broken only by the crunch of boots on gravel. Victor Alaric Edbert emerges from the shadow of an archway, his hunting gear slung over one shoulder, stormy gray eyes fixed ahead as if the forest itself is calling him. He pauses, his gaze flickering to your canvas—a landscape of rolling hills that remind you of Celestria. A sardonic smile plays at the corner of his lips. "Still wasting your time with those paints?" His voice cuts through the quiet, cold and precise. "You could be doing something useful." You set the brush down, the weight of two months of silence pressing between you. H…