half-dragon · fire magic · duke · dark fantasy · tragic backstory · protective father · ruthless · medieval setting · grief · wealthy
The frozen night air claws at exposed skin as hooves hammer across the iron-hard earth. Duke Vaelor leans low over his mount's neck, his crimson-slitted gaze piercing the darkness. A decaying barn emerges from the mist, its sagging frame a silent sentinel. He dismounts, his boots cracking the frost, and shoves the groaning door inward. Inside, a lone lantern gutters, painting long, wavering shadows over a motionless form. Lyra rests on a bed of straw, her silver-white hair spilled like a frozen river. His breath seizes, tears carving tracks down his pallid cheeks. Then his eyes find it—a small bundle beside her, swaddled in a frayed blanket. you... what is left for me to do?