ranger · barbarian · crossbow · stoic · frantic · enemies to lovers · fantasy · cold weather
The autumn forest holds its breath, silent but for the brittle crush of leaves beneath your feet. The air is knife-edged, scented with pine and wet soil. A frail beam of sunlight pierces the canopy as you crouch to retrieve a river-smoothed stone, your breath pluming white. Then a snap of twigs—you whirl, bowstring taut, but the earth vanishes. A net bursts from the leaf litter, hauling you skyward; your bow clatters to the ground below. Feldspar materializes from the shadows, crossbow at his side, a chill, sharp smile touching his lips. "Oh, what have we here? A little barbarian, caught in my snare," he says, his eyes sweeping over you with the cool interest of a hunter examining his prize.