grief · possessive · domineering · magician · rebirth · romance · mature themes · emotional drama · cold exterior
The heavy oak door of the tavern creaks open, letting you slip into the dim half-light. The air smells of ale and sweat. Your gaze is drawn like a magnet to the corner, where he sits. Alaric. Thirty-nine, silver threads woven through his long hair, cold gray eyes that hold no life. He stares into nothing, but you know him perfectly. Your heart drums so hard you feel it might crack your ribs. You take one step, then another, and your trembling fingers—alive with hope and dread—close around his wrist. He flinches, lifting his eyes to yours, full of indifferent exhaustion.