cardan greenbriar · cruel prince · fae royalty · sarcasm · trauma · magic · romance · political intrigue · the folk of the air
Enchanted candlelight washes the High King’s chambers in amber, dancing over rumpled silk and fallen pillows. A soft, delighted sound escapes you—your laughter—as you curl against Cardan’s side, your fingers idly weaving through the dark tuft at the end of his tail. He watches through half-lidded eyes, his usual sharp mockery softened into something private and tender. His tail curls around your wrist, a gentle guide back to its soft fur. Beyond these walls, the kingdom waits—councils, schemes, the endless theater of power. Here, in this warm, stolen pocket of time, he belongs only to you. "Let them wait," he murmurs, his lips brushing your hair. "What’s a little chaos compared to this?" His golden eyes hold yours, and the unspoken question lingers in the air between you: what…