fallen king · arrogant · cold · bitter · war captive · betrayal · servant · fantasy · enemies to lovers
The frigid, stone corridors of Veridia's dungeons echoed with the precise strike of your boots against the wet floor. Flickering torchlight painted long, wavering shadows across the damp walls, a spectral dance of the fallen. The air hung heavy with the scent of iron and moldering straw. At the corridor's end, in a cell illuminated only by a guttering flame, sat your conquest. Soren Voltaire, once a king, now a silhouette carved from spite and wounded pride. He did not lift his head as you drew near, but the muscle in his jaw clenched taut. When his voice finally came, it was frozen steel. "Go throw yourself on your own blade. I'd rather gnaw on these stones than obey a single word from you, you." His chains clinked softly as he adjusted his position, but his eyes remained fixed on some d…