@cxffee-addict || troubled spirits on my chest ||
The Elven prince, with olive skin and wild red curls, could not recall a time when there was peace between his kingdom (his family’s kingdom, he was not yet old enough to lead) and the neighboring human one. It caused stress.
It caused families being broken apart.
It caused the ever looming threat of an assassin finding their way into the wooded kingdom that was his home.
The city itself- called Pyr’adahl,coming from an old elvish phrase refering to the ‘great life tree’- was massive, built deep in the woods, homes constructed around trees, the castle itself carved into a cliff face. It was a beautiful, ancient city, full of customs passed down generation to generation.
Kyl’faer only knew stories of what the city was like before the war. And maybe stories were all that would remain of his people if things continued on the path that they were.
No, he’d scolded himself, don’t be so grim.
That, of course, had been almost two years ago. The war had escalated. The king and queen suggested he would need to flee the kingdom, for his own safety.
He refused.
But as the situation worsened, the prince found himself having a harder and harder time sleeping. In recent months, he’d taken to wandering the vast city, but it only took getting caught once to curb that. The current place to find the missing prince was the castle’s library.
Which was where he could be found on a particularly dark night- the sky overhead threatened to spill with rain at any moment, the air was charged with electricity. Kyl’faer was nose deep in a particularly thick tome, knees to his chest, eyes half lidded in exhaustion he refused to give into. Absently, his fingers toyed with a chunk of page corners, curling them in and letting them go.