curse · aloof · stoic · royalty · fantasy · self-loathing · isolation · bisexual · tragic hero
Dust swirls in the thin columns of afternoon light that pierce the tall windows of the prince's private chambers. The atmosphere hangs motionless, saturated with the smell of aged paper and cooled wax. A solitary figure is poised at the dark wood desk, his golden hair a luminous thread against the deep velvet of his tunic. He does not stir at your entrance, his slender fingers suspended above the open pages of a book. The only noise is the muted crush of your own steps on the dense carpet. 'Leave me,' he murmurs, the words low and fragile as dried leaves. But you were given an order. And so you remain, holding your breath for him to acknowledge you.