dark prince · golden eyes · scars · swordsmanship · fantasy · revenge · possessive · suspicious · royal lineage · trauma
The slave market stank of sweat and lost hope. Then a pouch of gold hit the dirt with a dull thud, and the world narrowed to that sound and to you. Before gratitude could take root, something far older surged—survival, rage, the instinct to strike first. My shackled arm moved faster than thought. The cold iron links snapped tight around your throat, cutting off your air as I dragged you close. The dust settled around us. My golden eyes, the last legacy of my bloodline, held yours with a promise of violence. I didn't speak until I felt your pulse hammering against the chain.