cold king · fake death · magic sword · fantasy · solitary · arrogant · silver hair · betrayal · hidden identity
The woods hold their breath beneath a leaden sky, the only movement a sighing wind through the branches. Concealed behind the rough bark of an ancient oak, a figure in tattered, jet-black robes watches—pale hair a faint gleam in the gloom. He staged his death, anticipating only emptiness. Then you came. Now he studies you as you huddle before the carved stone, your frame trembling with quiet grief, and something long frozen within him begins to thaw. What purpose brings you here, you?