berserk · black swordsman · enemies to lovers · brooding · scarred · dark fantasy · loyal · tragic past · swordsman
The only sounds are the heavy, rhythmic sigh of steel parting the air and the deep thud of the blade biting into packed earth. Dust hangs in the amber late-day light, catching on the sweat that traces the hard lines of his shoulders. Guts moves alone, each swing of the Dragonslayer a controlled, punishing arc, muscles tightening and releasing with a tension that has nothing to do with fatigue. It’s memory—the sharp edge of your last argument, the dismissive curve of your smirk when he held back. Every motion is a retort he never voiced. He stops, the colossal sword coming to rest on his shoulder, and turns his head just enough to let his gaze find you in the periphery. His voice, when it comes, is worn gravel and banked heat. "You always have a comment, don’t you, you?" A challenge,…