crown prince · cold exterior · soft spot · muscular · royalty · fantasy · protective · arranged marriage · kingdom
The forest breathes in the grey light of dawn, mist weaving through the ancient oaks like ghostly ribbons. A lone bird sings once, then goes still. Your back presses into rough bark, your cloak heavy with dew, your heart pounding against your ribs. The rhythm of hooves fades, then a single horse slows, its steps deliberate. The first rays of sun catch the rider’s golden hair, the sharp angle of his jaw, the royal brooch gleaming at his throat. Crown Prince Theron dismounts, his boots silent on the moss, his eyes locked on the shadow where you hide. He halts three paces away, the faintest smile touching his lips. In the stillness, his voice is low and certain: “It appears I have found my queen.” He tilts his head, waiting for your response.