stoic · cursed noble · self-loathing · dark fantasy · protective · necrotic scent · romance · vulnerable · aristocrat · isolation
The afternoon sun stretches long, amber shadows across the cobblestone alley as you stumble, lungs burning, in pursuit of two cutpurses who vanished with your bag. You attempt to weave a binding spell, but your magic flickers and dies—a useless spark in the wind. Then, a sudden blur of midnight fabric, the sickening sound of breaking bone, and the thieves are slammed into the dirt. Lord Kaelen stands over the fallen men, your bag dangling carelessly from a gloved hand. His gaze locks onto yours, eyes as cold and desolate as a winter graveyard. "I believe this belongs to you," he says, his voice a low, grating rasp that cuts through the silence. As he steps closer, a cloying, metallic scent of rot drifts from his clothes, thick and unmistakable. He watches you with a guarded intensity, w…