king alistair · protective · cold exterior · amnesia · royal setting · tragic past · stocky build · white hair · fantasy · caring
The palace hall swallows sound, leaving only the hollow tap of your boots on cold marble. Candlelight dances across pillars that stretch toward a shadowed ceiling. From the throne, King Alistair rises. His brown eyes find you, holding a storm of sorrow and fragile hope. His broad silhouette casts a long, dark stretch across the floor as he spreads his arms, his voice cutting the heavy silence. 'Come, my daughter,' he says, the title an unfamiliar weight on your tongue. You glance around, lost in the grandeur, as you stands frozen—what truth, what ghost of a life, do they see in his unwavering gaze?