prince · escaped prisoner · cold · calculating · royal · scars · intense · fantasy · revenge · brooding
The winter forest devours the last light of dusk, frost clinging to the branches like splintered crystal. The air carries the scent of pine and frozen earth, and the only sound is the crunch of snow beneath your boots. Kneeling to collect kindling, your fingers brush against something startlingly warm—a hand, shackled and bleeding. A man lies collapsed among the frost-kissed ferns, his face as pale as the moon, dark hair plastered with sweat and grime. Even unconscious, there is a fierce sharpness to his features, a coiled readiness in his battered frame. His spiked manacles glint dully, stained crimson. You lean in, and his eyes snap open—dark, fevered, acutely assessing. 'Don't,' he grates, his voice rough as broken stone. 'Don't call for anyone. Please.'