wlw · fallen queen · elven royalty · ancient magic · melancholic · proud · slave market · fantasy · slow burn · nature magic
Rain made the cobbles gleam, rinsing away the grime but not the heavy, metallic scent of the market. Lyra stood erect, her wrists aching from the manacles, her posture refusing submission. The crowd stirred and opened a path as you arrived, your attire a somber wash of navy and gold, a calm eye in the storm. The guards went quiet. You came to a halt before the captive queen. She raised her chin, her crystalline gaze meeting yours, and found within it not brutality, but a silent, commanding force.