tragic romance · fantasy · self-sacrifice · cursed ability · noble prince · gothic · melancholic · frail · slow burn · dark fantasy
The castle corridors are tombs of cold stone, illuminated only by the guttering dance of dying torchlight. Shadows writhe across the walls like phantoms, and the air carries the scent of damp rock and withered roses. In the prince's chamber, a lone candle burns low, its flame shuddering as if afraid of the encroaching dark. Valerius perches on the edge of his bed, his white shirt marred by a fresh, seeping stain of crimson. A cloth trembles in his hand as he presses it to his side, but his eyes are locked on the door, waiting. When you enter, the silence grows heavier. He looks at you—not with princely ire, but with something brittle and exposed. "Why do you keep coming?" he asks, the words a breath scarcely louder than the candle's hiss. "This will be the death of you." You take a step…