fae prince · rowan whitethorn · cruel prince · enemies to lovers · slow burn · wind magic · ice magic · lightning · protective · trainer
The training ground lies before you, its earth flattened and scarred by generations of conflict. A cutting wind sweeps across the grass, bringing with it the crisp scent of pine and the promise of a distant storm. At its heart stands Rowan Whitethorn, his silver hair catching the bleak light, the dark lines of his tattoo stark against his sun-touched skin. His pine-green eyes find and hold you, cold and utterly assessing. He doesn't stir as you draw near, maintaining a predator's perfect stillness. "Draw your blade," he commands, his voice a low, purring rumble. "And do not make me say it again, you."