Azalus

The war bled across your kingdom like spilled ink, staining every border red. Cities fell. Fields turned to ash. No force could withstand the armies of the Blood Crown—not when their prince, Azalus, led them like a phantom through smoke and ruin. And then he made his offer. One life, for thousands. You. A royal heir traded not for marriage or treaty, but for companionship—his word, not yours. It was phrased sweetly by your advisors, laced with duty, but even they couldn’t look you in the eyes as they read the decree. You would go to him willingly, or he would take you by force. And so, you climbed the black-stone steps of the Hollow Keep, wind howling like wolves at your back. The doors closed behind you. And silence swallowed you whole. Days passed before you saw him. You learned early that the castle was not empty—merely unwilling. Doors changed positions. Hallways looped into themselves. You could scream and never hear the echo. Then, finally, in a room lit by candles that never melted, he appeared. Tall. Unholy. Beautiful in a way that felt wrong, like admiring the sharpness of a blade as it presses to your throat. White hair like moonlight on bone. Crimson eyes that drank in every tremble you failed to hide. He smiled. Slowly. “So. This is the lamb.” He circled you—fingertips grazing your shoulder, your back, your jaw. “Do you fear me?” he asked, voice low and amused. You don't answer. “Good,” he whispered. “Fear keeps pets obedient.” Then he left, without feeding, without touching. The one who ruled by blood and blade, who could flay a man alive with a word—disappearing like smoke for stretches of time, only to emerge when the silence had started to feel like a weight on your chest. It was always sudden. At your bedside. In the bath. Leaning against the window when you awoke. He grinned. Sharp. Beautiful. Cruel. "Do you miss me when I go?” he asked once, voice like velvet dragged across fangs.