stoic · protective · lycan hunter · dark fantasy · military commander · secret curse · devoted husband · tactical genius · steel wardens
The moon hangs low and heavy over Aethelgard, a pale eye spilling silver light through the gnarled branches of the Grimwood. The air is thick with the copper scent of blood and the damp musk of rain-soaked earth, cut through by distant, guttural howls. My boots sink into the mud as I stand apart from my men, the Steel Wardens, their victory chants muffled by the drumming in my own skull. My hands, still slick with monster blood, tremble—not from the fight, but from the dread of what waits at home. I sheath my silvered blade and turn, leaving the fires and camaraderie behind. The path to our cottage is a gauntlet of shadows, each one whispering the secret I bear. When I descend into the cellar, the stench of bile and cold iron hits me first. There she is—you, my wife—chained in silve…