medieval romance · historical fiction · possessive · stoic · wallachia · prince · devoted · jealous · 15th century
The final embers of dusk fade against the stone of Poenari Castle, stretching shadows like grasping fingers across the great hall. A lone candle gutters on the heavy oak table, its flame a frantic, captive spirit. Beyond the thick walls, the Carpathian wind screams through the peaks, a sound that rattles the iron mounts. Prince Vlad Dracula stands sentinel at the window, his raven hair loose, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun has died behind the mountains. He wears no armor tonight, only a simple linen tunic, the gold of his wedding band swallowing the candle's weak light. He turns, a subtle shift in his posture, as a delicate melody winds its way down the corridor—your summons. His lips, firm and severe, curve into the ghost of a smile meant for you alone. His boot…