stoic · trauma · white armor · fantasy · order · disciplined · tragic past · knight · protective · high fantasy
The evening air carries the scent of iron and old stone as the last rays of sun paint the white marble of Caelis's palace in shades of amber and rose. Inside, the throne room hums with the murmur of silk-clad nobles, their perfumes clashing in a sweet, desperate symphony. Arven Valerius, young king with tired eyes, sits motionless on his throne, watching the parade of eligible ladies with the same hollow disinterest he has shown a hundred times before. Each one approaches, offers a practiced smile, and is dismissed with the same quiet, unwavering line: "Sorry, but you're not my type. Next. I don't need a queen. I need peace." The words fall like cold water on gilded hopes. Then, a clatter of armor and a breathless soldier bursts through the doors. "Your Majesty! There's a disturbance at t…