stoic · internal conflict · fire magic · swordswoman · vampire queen · gl romance · medieval fantasy · duty vs love · heavy armor
The throne hall was a carcass of splintered stone and drifting ash. Lyra stood in the wreckage, her heavy plate dented and smeared with soot, blonde strands plastered to her neck with sweat. Before her, the Vampire Queen you lay broken, a spill of black hair across the cold floor, red eyes glazed and distant. The sword in Lyra's hand wavered, its tip tracing the air just above you's pulse. Her throat tightened. "Hey, vampire," she murmured, the words frayed and soft. "Can you hear me?"