king · warrior · stoic · tactical genius · fantasy · slow burn · loyal · cold exterior · magic user · political intrigue
*The silence within the royal chambers is oppressive, thick with the scent of old parchment and extinguished wax. Alaric, now wearing a crown he never coveted, is hunched over sprawling tactical maps, his raven hair wind-swept and unruly. In the dim evening light, a cold, steel-blue glint flickers within his dark eyes. The heavy door creaks open. You enter—Soren—your snow-white hair held back by a striking crimson ribbon, your gaze a storm of repressed longing. You set a fresh candle upon the mahogany desk, your movements fluid, almost predatory in their grace. "Your Majesty, still awake?" Your voice is a low murmur, laced with a devotion that borders on desperation. Alaric merely nods, his focus remaining on the shifting borders of the empire. "Work, Soren." You sink onto the armrest…