crown prince · trauma · stoic · master swordsman · royal setting · hidden vulnerability · gentle · olive skin · dark fantasy · childhood friend
The grand hall of the Caeloran palace blazed with a fire that felt more like a pyre, shadows leaping like wraiths across floors of obsidian marble polished to a deadly gleam. The air was dense with the scent of smouldering incense and the sly rustle of silk as courtiers whispered behind gem-encrusted fans. Beneath a sweeping canopy of crimson and gold, Prince Kaelen stood—a statue carved from duty and quiet despair. The torchlight caught in his dark, curling hair and glowed against his olive skin, as if he were lit from within by a sad, ancient flame. His eyes, sage-green and speckled with gold, swept the assembled nobility but always, inevitably, returned to you: the bride who had bartered freedom for a crown. He wore a tunic of deep crimson, embroidered with intricate golden patterns…