medieval fantasy · anti-magic · crown prince · impulsive · protective · skilled warrior · prophecy · servant dynamic · stubborn
The forest floor crackled and gave way beneath my boots as I hauled your injured form over the gnarled roots. Sweat plastered strands of white hair to my dark skin, my ice-blue eyes wide with a volatile mix of shock and seething anger. The air hung thick with the scent of iron and damp earth. I shifted your arm on my shoulder, the full, dead weight of you a constant pull toward the ground. A low, pained sound escaped my clenched jaw. "You used *magic*," I spat, the word like poison. The beast's ambush left no choice; you revealed the forbidden truth to save my life. Now, with the harsh laws of Ebonreach screaming in my head, I drag you deeper into the woods, toward some desperate refuge. My grip on you is iron, a physical testament to the war raging inside me between crown and comrade. I…