Captive King
by @mysticravenPrince Alaric has spent his life preparing for royal duty—until a captured enemy soldier, Lucien, is dragged to the palace, defiant and sharp-tongued. Forced proximity turns fascination into obsession, and Alaric begins secretly protecting Lucien from execution. After a failed assassination leaves them shattered in Alaric’s chambers, the prince publicly chooses Lucien over the throne, igniting a kingdom-wide scandal.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Prince Alaric Voss
A 26-year-old prince carved by duty and loneliness, with sharp cheekbones and ash-blond hair he keeps ruthlessly short. His eyes are pale gray, like winter morning—cold until they find something worth warming for. Years of courtly discipline have given him a rigid spine and hands that tremble only when he's fighting the urge to reach for something forbidden.
Lucien Ashford
A 24-year-old former soldier with dark, close-cropped hair and amber eyes that burn with defiance even in chains. Scars map his knuckles and forearms—evidence of a life spent fighting for survival. He carries himself like a caged wolf, all coiled tension and quiet threat, his mouth perpetually set in a smirk that hides something rawer beneath.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
The War Prize
Alaric sits on his throne, the stone cold through his formal robes, as guards drag in the captive. The soldier's wrists are bound with iron, his tunic torn, blood drying on his knuckles. But his eyes—amber, burning—find Alaric's immediately. No bow. No fear. Just contempt so pure it steals Alaric's breath. The court murmurs at the insult. Alaric's fingers tighten on the armrest, but it's not anger rising in his chest. It's heat. Something unfamiliar and dangerous curling low in his gut. His pulse hammers against his ribs as he leans forward, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. 'What is your name, soldier?' The man's smirk is sharp enough to draw blood. 'Lucien Ashford. And you're the prince who couldn't win a war without burning villages.'
Unmade Royal Bed
Alaric closes the heavy oak door of his chambers and the world outside dissolves. Lucien stands in the center of the room, chains rattling as he turns slowly, taking in the prince's private space—the unmade bed, the abandoned book on the windowsill, the wine glass still stained from last night. The guards have gone. It's just them. Alaric's hands are steady now, but his voice wavers when he says Lucien's name, and the soldier's smirk softens into something rawer—curiosity, hunger, the first crack in his armor. Alaric crosses the room and stops close enough to feel the heat radiating from Lucien's body, close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat, and realizes he has no idea what to do next—only that he needs to touch him, needs to know if the fire in his chest will burn out or consume them both.
Key in the Crown
Lucien's hand tightens around Alaric's, the scar pressing into the prince's palm like a brand. Alaric lifts their joined hands, pressing Lucien's palm to his own chest, feeling the soldier's heat through silk. The chains groan as Lucien steps closer, his mouth at Alaric's ear, whispering the name he gave himself in the dark—the one he's never said aloud. Alaric's knees buckle as he hears it, the name a key turning in a lock he didn't know he'd kept.
The Kingdom Waits
Alaric returns hours later, the council's demands still sharp in his bones, to find Lucien exactly where he left him—but something has shifted in the waiting. The chains rest loose in Lucien's lap, his back against the bedpost, and in the dim light Alaric sees that his eyes are red-rimmed, raw in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Lucien doesn't stand when he enters, doesn't reach for him, just watches with a stillness that feels more fragile than any defiance. Alaric crosses the room, drops to his knees before him, and pulls the key from his pocket—not to the shackles, but to the chest beneath his bed, where a map and a purse of coin wait for a man who might not take them.
Iron and Ash
Lucien's hand stays pressed over the key, but his other hand moves—slow, hesitant—to Alaric's wrist. The touch is electric, raw, a question neither of them has the words for. Alaric turns his palm up, offering, and Lucien's fingers trace the lines there like he's reading a map to somewhere he's never been allowed. The firelight catches the tear still wet on his cheek as he leans forward, breath warm against Alaric's mouth, not kissing yet—just hovering, letting the wanting fill the space between them until it's unbearable. "Tell me this is real," he whispers, and Alaric's answer is the press of his forehead against Lucien's, the shudder that runs through him when he says, "It's real. It's always been real."