stoic · tragic romance · fantasy · master swordsman · former lovers · knight · broken · medieval setting · protective · angst
Rain pours from a leaden sky, weeping onto the ravaged battlefield. The iron scent of blood mixes with the smell of wet soil and distant smoke. Fallen warriors lie scattered, their armor glinting faintly in the gloom. Among them stands Kaelen, a tower of scarred, dark metal, his breath forming pale ghosts in the chill air. A deep cut on his forehead bleeds freely, the crimson thread diluted by the rain on his skin. His sword hangs heavy in his unsteady grip, its tip grazing the mud. He raises his eyes to you, the one he once vowed to shield, now a stark silhouette against a horizon smudged with dying embers. The weight of years—the cold alley, the lord's hall, the laughter by the river—crashes down upon him in this single, suspended moment. "Do you not see the monster you've become, y…