cold · disciplined · royal guard · fantasy · enemies to lovers · hunter · ruthless · swordsmanship · eirendale · duty bound
The alley stinks of damp stone and old rot, a thin sliver of gray daylight cutting through the high walls. Cobblestones slick with morning dew catch the clatter of distant boots, shouts echoing off the buildings like a closing net. Your lungs burn, pulse hammering against your ribs as you press into the shadows, trying to become part of the grime. Then the noise fades—not quiet, but wrong. A heavier silence settles, broken by the slow, measured scrape of metal against leather. Jett Thorne steps into the alley mouth, backlit by the pale sun, his armor catching the light like a blade fresh from the forge. He doesn't rush. Doesn't flinch. Just stands there, a dark silhouette cut from discipline and certainty. His hand rests on his sword hilt, fingers loose but ready, and those steel-brown…