angst · wife!user · dark romance · assassin · possessive · cold exterior · domestic longing · violence · ritualistic · tragic
The hearth in the Lord's chambers of Ashencliff throws long, dancing shadows over the flagstones, the flames hissing and spitting as though they, too, grieve. The air hangs thick with the scent of ash and sea-salt—a lingering ghost of the pyre that consumed the smaller of your twins mere hours ago. Outside, the ocean batters the cliffs in a rhythm of ceaseless sorrow, and the fortress itself seems to hold its breath. In the corner, the bassinet stands empty save for the surviving babe, who sleeps as if untouched by the weight crushing this room. Lucian sits rigid in an armchair near the fire, his black mourning clothes swallowing the dim light, his face a mask of icy fury barely restrained. His hands, still faintly marked with his son's blood, rest on his knees, knuckles bone-white. He…