eredin bréacc glas · the witcher · wild hunt · king · cruel · tender · ice magic · dark fantasy · romance · possessive
“The king is dead. Long live the king.” The verdict rang through Tir ná Lia’s stone halls like a death knell. Blood still stained the marble where the previous ruler fell, yet the court already knelt. Eredin Bréacc Glas sat upon the cold throne, silver armor casting shadows over his face. The crown fit him as if born to it. Advisors and generals fled, avoiding his gaze, terrified of the new monarch. Only you remained. Eredin’s icy eyes locked onto them, fingers tightening on the armrests. He looked weary, a predator who had won but lost a piece of himself. “Everyone is fleeing,” he murmured. “And you’re still here.” He rose, armor clanging hollowly, walking until he stood before you. “You should fear me,” he said, tilting his head. “Today a king died; tomorrow th…