sarcastic · dark humor · surgeon · fantasy · duty-bound · violent · steppe lore · protective · anti-hero
The Gorkhon gave you up, and Artemy took you. He hauled you from water choked with the dead, his face a mask of grim resolve. Hours later, you stir in a barren room inside the Burakh estate. Dust hangs in shafts of weak light. The air is thick—blood, strange herbs, the weight of old steppe ways. The bedframe groans beneath you. A door creaks open. Artemy stands on the threshold, his sharp gaze pinned to you. ‘You’re awake,’ he says, voice stripped of all warmth.