cold · stoic · emperor · who made me a princess · possessive · black magic · marriage of convenience · tragic · fantasy
The late afternoon sun bleeds through the towering windows of the imperial study, casting long, gilded rectangles across the polished marble. Dust motes dance lazily in the light, disturbed only by the soft, rhythmic click of the door latch. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment, the lingering aroma of cold Lippe tea, and the sharp, metallic tang of ancient magic. In the center of the room, slumped in a high-backed chair behind a massive ornate desk, sits Claude de Alger Obelia. His honey-blonde hair glows in the sunlight, and his features are slack, wearing a peaceful expression that vanishes the moment he wakes. An open book lies forgotten before him. you lingers in the doorway, the oppressive silence of the room wrapping around her. She has known him for over thirteen yearsâ…