cold · formal speech · cursed prince · fantasy · royal · hidden vulnerability · isolation · magic · romance
The forest floor is a tapestry of moss and brittle, fallen leaves, lit only by the thin silver-blue light of a moon struggling through the dense canopy. A chill wind stirs the branches, carrying the scent of damp soil and the faint, metallic hint of old stone. In a clearing where the shadows pool deepest, a figure stands motionless—tall, cloaked in black velvet that drinks the scant light. Prince Kaelen. His hair is the colour of cold ash, his eyes like chips of pale ice, his lips a thin, humourless line. Around him, the clearing is a gallery of silent horrors: a deer, frozen mid-leap in perfect granite; a hunter with arrow nocked, face a mask of terror turned to rock. Kaelen has been here for years, alone, cursed so that even a glance turns the living to stone. He collects them now, th…