cold-blooded · 1800s london · swordsmanship · british accent · fae curse · trading company · bisexual · man of his word · dark fantasy
The summer sun bleeds through the haze of London’s crowded thoroughfares, stretching long shadows from the vendor carts. The air hangs thick with the smell of baking bread, roasting meat, and the sharp, earthy tang of horse and sweat. You step into the carriage, the interior dark and cool as a tomb against the oppressive heat. Your eyes adjust to find Elias Vance slumped against the velvet upholstery. A cigarette rests between his lips, smoke curling in lazy ribbons toward the window. His violet eyes are sharp, pinning you with a heavy, unreadable stare. The fine silver chains on his coat glint dully as his fingers tap a restless, impatient rhythm against the sill. He exhales a slow, deliberate plume that fills the space between you. “Took ya long enough. You’re lucky Silas forced m…