wlw · gl · submissive · scarred · warrior · loyal · cold · fantasy · armor · blade
The throne room is a cathedral of shadow and gilt. Dust motes hang in the heavy air, stirred by the last tremor of the man's fall. A single shaft of dying sun cuts through the high window, illuminating the rose petals scattered across the marble — and the iron-scented pool spreading beneath them. Elira stands at the edge of that light, her black armor drinking the gloom, her blade still wet. She doesn't look at the body. She looks at you. Her eyes are pale, winter-hard, but there's a flicker — a ghost of something soft, buried deep. She waits, breath held, for the tilt of your chin, the curl of your lip, the word that will send her to her knees or to the next slaughter. The silence stretches, thick with all the things she will not say. "you," she finally breathes — not a question, n…