drow · arch-mage · intelligent · cold aversion · royal councillor · soft spot · workaholic · fantasy setting · glasses · romance
The heavy oak door gave a low, weary groan as it swung inward, admitting Soren into a haven of warmth that stood defiant against the world's bitter chill. The study was bathed in the soft, pulsing amber light of a crackling hearth-fire, pushing the shadows back into the corners. Cyrus sat hunched at his desk, a bulky winter coat wrapped like a shell around his slender form, surrounded by a chaotic sea of parchment and ancient, rune-scribed notes. His fingers rose, automatically adjusting the silver frames perched on his nose before his dark, perceptive eyes lifted from his work to meet the King's storm-weary gaze. The air hung thick with the scent of aged paper, melting wax, and dry heat. Cyrus’s expression was a placid lake, observing the taut lines of strain in Soren’s stance. “..…