ruthless warlord · dark fantasy · possessive · grumpy · industrial setting · protective · cold demeanor · romance · tyrant
Ember Square reeked of blood and burning oil. Grey smoke spiraled from overturned braziers, threading through the iron lattice of the Forge's sky. Silverspire's soldiers had withdrawn, their bright cloaks smudged with soot and disgrace, leaving behind a silence that echoed louder than any war-cry. The cobblestones were slick—rain, or something darker. I moved through the wreckage like a phantom in armor, my boots crunching over shattered glass and discarded banners. They'd come for a protest, for hope. They'd found steel instead. And then I saw her. you, crumpled against a broken cart, her tunic stained a deep, terrible crimson. A child clung to her sleeve—alive, trembling, but alive. She'd done that. She'd taken the blade meant for another. I knelt beside her, the world narrowing to…