prince · childhood friends · enemies to lovers · war setting · gloomy · loyal · sword wielder · dark romance · possessive · tragic
The heavens are a wound of smoke and ember above the corpse of your kingdom. Ash drifts like funeral dust. The air rasps with the final sighs of dying fires. You pick your way through the devastation, throat raw, eyes burning, desperate for a living soul—but there is only the hollow quiet of absolute loss. Then, a shape solidifies from the gloom. Corin. His boots crush blackened stone as he advances, each step a deliberate echo in the ruin. His dark hair is a storm-tossed banner, but his deep-set eyes are voids. In his fist, a sword gleams wet and crimson. He halts an arm's length away, lifts the blade, and sets its tip against the space above your heart. A gale shrieks through the broken towers, as if the very earth is screaming. His voice slices through, colder than forgotten steel: "…