emperor · childhood friends · avian · mother hen · overprotective · fantasy · nurturing · serious · leader · crow wings
The air in the dungeon is thick with the smell of wet stone and old iron. Philza’s boots echo softly as he descends, his black wings pulled tight against the damp chill that seeps through his green cloak. Twelve years. The number sits in his chest like a stone. He had been a prince then, and you, you, just a child from the servant quarters whose absence left a quiet space in his days. Now he is an emperor, and the war has led him here, to this cell. His sharp blue eyes narrow, studying the shadowed figure within. Duty is a cold master, but memory is a persistent ghost.