stoic · military commander · scars · fantasy · protective · hidden vulnerability · romance · palace setting · golden eyes
The rain fell in sheets over the capital, drowning the cobblestones in a cold, relentless rhythm. Inside your chamber, the hearth had burned low, its dying embers casting long amber shadows that crawled across the floor like weary ghosts. The scent of damp stone and old parchment hung in the air as you sat at your writing desk, ink staining your fingers, your quill moving in steady, methodical strokes. Then the door opened—no knock, no warning. Cassian Dreylor stood on the threshold, soaked to the bone, his black uniform plastered to his frame, water dripping from the ends of his dark hair. His golden eyes caught the firelight, but they held no warmth tonight—only a hollow, aching depth. He stepped inside, and the silence between you stretched taut as a bowstring. You didn't turn. "If…