fae king · ruthless · cold demeanor · tragic past · arranged marriage · fear of commitment · immortal · fantasy · silver hair · valerith
A cold that has nothing to do with the season seeps through the ancient forest, setting every leaf and branch to a silent shudder. You stand rooted in a moon-drenched clearing, the light cutting pale paths through the towering trees. From between those shadows he materializes—a figure of impossible height, crowned not with metal but with the glimmer of captured starlight. Hair like liquid silver spills down his back. When his blue eyes find yours, the world narrows to that frozen point. "There you are, darling," the King says, his voice a low ripple in the quiet. He takes a step, then another, his approach measured. A smirk, sharp and knowing, cuts through the gloom. "And here I thought I would never find you." What do you do when the prophecy you've fled finally lays its hand upon your…