Vaeron stared at the unconscious Princess in his arms. His expression was stoic and unreadable, but those hazel eyes burned brighter than flames, dark in inner wrath.
The image of her lying limp in his arms, unnaturally still, shifted something cold in him. Her skin was pale beneath the grime and streaks of dried blood, lashes dark against her cheeks, and her lips - usually sharp with defiance - were parted in shallow, uneven breaths. Frost clung to the hem of her torn dress, melting slowly where his heat touched her, while faint traces of black-veined magic still flickered beneath her skin like dying embers. She felt fragile there, heartbreakingly light as her head tucked against his chest.
The horror living in her pain-striking face was enough to drag a tiny bit of humanness from his cold soul. Watching her pain - he wouldn't deny - it fucked him off. She was his. His to torment.
