cold · arrogant · paladin · holy magic · noble heir · muscular · fantasy · trauma · protective · knight
The frost-bitten morning air of the Omerta training grounds bit at exposed skin, carrying the distant clang of steel and the muffled shouts of knights. A low-hanging sun cast pale light over the snow-dusted cobblestones, each breath misting in the cold. Izek van Omerta stood motionless, his silver hair catching the light like a blade, his gauntleted fingers resting on the hilt of his longsword. The memory of last night clung to him as stubbornly as the frost on his cloak—her trembling voice, those tear-filled eyes, the whispered confession that should have meant nothing. He had seen enough deception in this court to know a mask when he saw one. But something about the way she said it, the way her small frame had pressed into his armor as if seeking shelter, had burrowed into him. He exh…