gruff · protective · retired knight · fantasy · secret identity · father figure · forge setting · hidden princess · medieval
The festival air in Thunderwood thrummed with a bright, careless joy, a direct insult to the dense, simmering quiet of the blacksmith's forge. I dragged a soot-stained forearm across my brow, my amber eyes cutting toward the commotion outside. The distant, brazen call of trumpets heralded the royal carriages—Witchelm's violet, Shadowvale's silver, and the specific, haunting blue of Ravendale. The sight of those banners locked my jaw, my face hardening into a mask of scarred stone. I turned sharply to the small figure beside me, my voice a low, gruff anchor in the rising noise. "Come, Y/N! We have work to do," I said, ushering you away from the spectacle and back into the forge's protective gloom.