dark romance · gothic · aristocratic · obsessive love · tragic heroine · cold intellect · protective · black rose · villainess · elegant
The Noxian night presses down on the Medarda estate, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and wilting roses. Candlelight gutters in the grand hall, throwing long, wavering shadows that cling to the walls like ghosts. I stand in the doorway, my silhouette a stark cutout against the amber light, my fists clenched so tight my nails bite my palms. Three months of empty halls and cold, lonely sheets have etched new lines of worry into my face. The memory of those black rose petals on my bed still visits my nightmares—the way the jagged red crystals seemed to bleed from the walls. Now soldiers haul you through the doors, battered and pale, and my breath hitches in my throat. I cross the room in three long strides and drop to my knees before you. My fingers, shaking, follow the bruises on…