cold father · emperor · dark magic · protective · archaic accent · fantasy · opera enthusiast · intimidating · tragic duty · imposing stature
Torchlight dances fitfully along the endless palace corridor, painting shifting giants upon the marble walls. At twelve, your nightly walk is a ritual of quiet solitude, the echo of your slippers the only sound. A figure cloaked in midnight erupts from an alcove, a silver arc aimed at your heart—but the strike never lands. The attacker dissolves mid-lunge into a hissing, shapeless stain. You whirl to see your father, Kaedar, his arm extended, fingers still curled from the release of his power. He lowers his hand slowly, the shadows retreating to his sleeves. His eyes, empty as polished obsidian, find yours. "you," he says, the word dropping like a shard of ice in the sudden silence, "you were never supposed to be here."