Trapped I

Rohan

 

A few days after the fight with Aerin in the cell.

 

The moon hung low in the desolate sky, casting an ethereal glow upon the ashen landscape that stretched endlessly before Rohan. He stood on one of the palace terraces, a solitary figure against the oppressive silence that enveloped the cursed realm. The wind whispered hauntingly through the still air, carrying an otherworldly melody that seemed to echo the sorrows of the land.

The ashen sky mirrored the desolation below, a region devoid of color, joy, and life. No flowers adorned the landscape, no birds soared through the ominous sky—only a haunting symphony of the wind whispered through the emptiness.

The palace, constructed from dark stones, loomed above him like a fortress of shadows. Yet, beneath his feet, the crimson marble mirrored the essence of a battlefield, each step a reminder of walking on blood-soaked ground.

As he gazed across the desolation, a heaviness settled in Rohan’s chest, a melancholy almost palpable in the air. His thoughts turned to Aerin, a confusing array of conflicting emotions stirring within him. The memory of their clash in the cell haunted him, the tension between them still lingering like a ghost. But it was the recollection of the unexpected kiss that left him grappling with desires he hadn’t anticipated.

“Aerin,” he muttered to the empty air, a name both bitter and sweet on his tongue. His thoughts swirled in confusion, wrestling with the desire that threatened to unravel his carefully crafted control.

“What is she to me?” he wondered aloud, his voice carried away by the wind. “A spoiled girl, daughter of an enemy. Nothing more.” he muttered, as if convincing himself of a truth he wasn’t entirely sure of.

Yet, his mind betrayed him, dwelling on the vivid image of Aerin beneath him in that dimly lit cell. The intensity of his longing, the desire to hear her sigh his name beneath the weight of him, consumed his thoughts. He shook his head, as if physically dispelling the provocative notions that infiltrated his mind. Anger flared, his internal dialogue both a solace and a torment.

His eyes narrowed in frustration. “Fool,” he chastised himself, shaking off the thoughts. “She’s nothing but a thorn in my side, a pawn in this wretched game.”

Worse, the daughter of Eryone, another enemy in this desolate chessboard of a world.

But beneath the surface, an undeniable truth lingered, a truth he was unwilling to confront. The very thought of her, vulnerable and passionate, clawed at the walls he had erected around his heart.

“Stop,” he hissed at his own weakness, clenching his jaw. “I won’t be swayed by sentiment. Not now.”

But deep down, beneath the layers of arrogance and icy demeanor, a flame of desire flickered in the recesses of Rohan’s heart, a feeling he was loath to acknowledge.

As he stood lost in the tempest of his own thoughts, he failed to notice someone approaching.

“I would give anything to know what’s on your mind, Rohan,” Niamh’s voice, like the cool wind before a storm, broke the silence behind him.

Rohan turned, the icy mask slipping into place as his eyes met Niamh’s. “Is that so, Niamh?” he retorted, his tone full of mockery. “Be careful what you wish for. My thoughts might not be as entertaining as you imagine.”

Niamh approached, her figure casting a shadow in the moonlight. “Always so cold, Rohan,” she purred, leaning against the dark balustrade beside him. She traced an invisible line along it, her tone carrying a subtle invitation. “Perhaps you just need someone to melt the frost away.”

Rohan remained impassive, meeting her advances with a dismissive air. His response dripped with icy sarcasm, “I assure you, Niamh, I am immune to warming.”

She, undeterred, leaned in, her tone suggestive. “You know, they say your people are shadow wielders, but the rumor is that Elysian males also have fire in their veins and fuck like it too,” she remarked, a sly smile playing on her lips. “I wonder if the rumors hold any truth.”

Rohan scoffed, dismissing her insinuations with arrogance. “Save your wonderings for someone who cares. I’m not here to entertain your curiosity.”

Her interest momentarily deflated, replaced by a petulant frown. “Your loss,” she muttered, before abruptly changing the subject. “Mother is expecting you for a ‘political discussion’—whatever that means.”

Rohan sighed inwardly, his irritation masked by the calm exterior. “Of course, politics,” he replied with a hint of irony. “I’ll join her shortly.”

As Niamh left, Rohan took a deep breath, preparing for the upcoming meeting with Absinthya. He knew her interest went beyond politics. The night held a different kind of allure, and he readied himself for the manipulative dance awaiting in Absinthya’s chambers. He was no stranger to her intentions, having understood her desires through many a late-night encounter.