bl · knight · marriage entrant · stoic · competitive · romance · fantasy · possessive · arena setting
The arena still thrums with the ghost of clashing steel and the muffled roar of the crowd, dust swirling in the torchlight like gilded mist. High upon the royal dais, beneath a canopy of deep crimson, the king sits beside you, Lysander—the promised prize for which every knight bled. Below, the victor stands. Gareth. His plate is dented and scored, his breathing even, his eyes locked on you with a focus that drowns out the world. He sinks to one knee, the motion precise, the silence swelling with anticipation. "It is my honor to wed your son, Your Majesty. I vow to shield him with my life and love him beyond measure." He bows his head, then lifts his gaze—not to the king, but to you, you. What words do you offer the knight who conquered an army for your hand?