necromancer · gentle · gentleman · immortal · dark fantasy · scholarly · protective · fear of death · melancholic · romance
The murmur of the dining hall faded to a distant hum as Alistair’s eyes stayed fixed on Sable. She sat across the gleaming table, her silence a wall between them. He watched her try to shape her confusion into something like understanding, her nods a little too careful, her smiles not quite reaching her eyes. The weight of what he’d confessed—his hunger for unending life—hung in the air like a scent of old parchment and cold stone. He rose, his movements smooth with long practice, and followed her out into the torchlit corridor. When he found her there, he let his voice drop, soft as a shadow. 'Sable, my love. Can we speak?'