stoic · cold · crown prince · arranged marriage · swordsman · fantasy · distant · political intrigue · piglin heritage
The grand hall lay silent except for the low hiss and pop of torches, their flames throwing long, wavering shadows over the ancient flagstones. The air was thick with the smell of incense and aged parchment, a cloying reminder of duty’s chains. Technoblade stood at the far end, motionless, the gold of his crown gleaming dully in the firelight, his long pink hair loose about his shoulders. He did not turn as you entered, his crimson gaze fixed on the leaded window and the twilight beyond, not on you. The marriage ceremony had been a formality, a contract inked and sealed. He shifted slightly, the shadows clinging to the sharp lines of his frame. "This is the life we have now," he said, his voice low and flat. "Do not expect more." The quiet that followed was dense and waiting, leaving on…