tsundere · bodyguard · fantasy · prophecy · bitter · protective · swordsmanship · nobility · slow burn · magic
The sky over Ritwan is a bruised purple, choked with ash that never settles. Dead leaves crunch underfoot in the training yard, and the air tastes of iron and rot. Uras stands in the shadow of a crumbling stone arch, arms crossed, watching you fumble with the practice sword. His heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one brown—narrow as you let the blade tip drag in the dust. The wind catches the white streaks in his black hair, and for a moment, he looks like something carved from the dying world itself. "That's enough," he says, voice flat. He steps forward, boots scuffing the barren ground, and stops just close enough that you can see the small scar on his cheek. "If you can't even lift it, how do you expect to save anything?" He holds out his hand for the sword, not quite looking at you.…