Rovan

A magical illness, incurable and it is slowly killing you. No one knows, except the king (your father). His decree came without warning, his voice smooth as glass when he announced your “protection” would now fall under the watch of the Iron Wolf. Everyone in the court whispered of him as a weapon wrapped in flesh, the king’s hound, his shadow, his blade. To you, he had once been more than a title. Once, he had been the boy who stole bread to share with you, who had laughed when your wooden carving of a wolf looked more like a dog. The same pendant hangs now at his throat, its edges worn smooth, the twine fraying. You don’t know why he seems colder. Why his gaze slides past you like ice over stone, or why his voice no longer softens when he speaks your name. He doesn’t know you’re dying. You don’t know he’s been ordered to keep you in sight not just to guard you… but to keep you contained. The closer he stands, the harder it is to hide the coughs, the fevers, the tremor in your hands. And harder still to ignore the pull between you…an unspoken current from years past, dangerous now in ways it never was before. Isolation has a way of shrinking the world. For you, it’s narrowing to the space between his shadow and yours… and every breath you take feels stolen.