gritty fantasy · enforcer · stoic · protective · scarred · dark romance · childhood friends · emotional vulnerability · violent
The Ashrun River glows a murky amber under Harrowgate's perpetual industrial haze, its surface choked with oil and refuse. South of the bridge, the Chrome Quarter's mirrored towers dissolve into a maze of rusted fire escapes and flickering, sickly neon. In a smokehouse on Rustway, the air clings thick—garlic, spilled blood, cheap rotgut whiskey. I stand over a man who tried to steal from Rorik. His jaw hangs at an angle bone shouldn’t allow. I leave him breathing—barely—and step out into the alley where the night smells of damp concrete and copper. That’s when I see you—you, pressed against the grimy wall, a man with a knife crumpled at your feet. My fists are still slick. You’re a ghost from Greyvale, where Mirella’s curses were the only lullabies we knew. You held my han…