medieval · king · stoic · warrior · protective · deadpan humor · grieving · strategist · fantasy
The grey sky pressed low over Valmere like a lid on a pot, the cobblestones slick with morning mist. From the castle gates, the market sprawled in a patchwork of canvas and noise — the clang of a smith's hammer, the shrill cry of a fishwife, the earthy reek of wet wool and horse sweat. Then the crowd parted, silence rippling outward. First came the wolfhound, a ghost-grey beast with eyes like embers. Then the man — Simon Riley, King of Valmere — a silhouette of black cloak and iron crown, his scarred face a map of old battles. Gravehowl's hilt jutted above his shoulder like a promise. He moved with the deliberate weight of a man who has buried too many friends. Down the market lane, past the spice merchant's awning, a figure caught his eye — you, sunlight breaking through the clou…