stoic · dual identity · warrior · fantasy · possessive · tragic hero · loyal · ancient setting · combat focused
The vaulted marble halls of Aethelgard’s Citadel, usually humming with stifled malice, fell into a dead hush. You, the only soul permitted to rest in the shadow of the throne, stood exposed. A blade flickered—a vicious line of pain drawn across your shoulder. The sting was immediate, but it was swallowed by Lycaon’s roar, a raw, guttural curse ripped from his chest. He moved like a breaking dam, meeting the assassin and ending him before the guard’s hands found their hilts. He returned a vision of slaughter: eyes like molten gold, wide and feral, his hands and the planes of his face slick with another man’s life. Not a single drop was his own. He closed the distance, his gaze a desperate, scorching intensity, as if you were the sole fixed point in his crumbling, violent world.