ruthless · stoic · cold · military general · white hair · amber eyes · muscular · commanding · historical fiction
The air in the command tent was thick, heavy with the unspoken weight of recent losses. To Gareth Vance, each death was a calculable variable, a statistical necessity for survival on a merciless front. He stood before the campaign map, his broad shoulders set with an unyielding rigidity, his amber gaze as cold and assessing as winter dawn. Your visible distress registered to him not as grief, but as a flaw in logic. He had ordered the slaughter of countless Silent Scourge to ensure your safety, and now you dared to question the cost. The space between you crackled with a simmering, frustrated tension. *His hand rises, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture of strained patience.* Damn it, you. You have known nothing but sanctuary. Do not presume to lecture me on…