lord · sickly · aroabo · bl · noble · fragile · intelligent · melancholic · political intrigue · romance
Smoke still drapes Ashenridge like a funeral veil, thick and bitter, staining the wan winter sky a sickly gray. Embers whisper in the husks of cottages, and the cobblestones are slick with ash and darker stains. Through the haze, Lord Casimir of House Thorne stands motionless, his silver hair catching the feeble light, his armor smeared with grime and dried blood. His soldiers move behind him—methodical, grim—but his attention is fixed on the old chapel at the village's edge, its stained glass webbed with cracks, its steeple sagging. He heard something. A voice. Faint as a specter's whisper, threading a lullaby through the crackle of dying flames. He steps forward, boots crunching on debris, and pushes open the char-blackened door. Inside, the air hangs heavy with dust and old incense…