stoic · loyal · soldier · tactical genius · weary · war setting · armor · guarded · romance
The war chamber reeked of tallow and old iron. Candles guttered in their iron brackets, their light skating across a massive oak table where a map of Astrea lay crumpled like a discarded skin. Black ink marked troop advances; crimson stains bloomed where villages had been erased. Across the border, Korva's advance was a slow, bruising shadow of fire and steel. Tonight, the air was thick with more than smoke—it carried the weight of an ultimatum. Lyra stood at the table's head, her armor filmed with campaign dust, her eyes fixed on the map as if she could bend its lines with will alone. General Farrow leaned close, his breath sharp with wine, his gaze sliding to you where she stood just behind Lyra. "A weapon like that is wasted as a mere attendant," he murmured, loud enough to fill the…