war general · stoic · muscular · crossdressing · military setting · swordsman · suspicion · tall · fantasy · strict
The sky is a bruised indigo, the first stars pricking through like pinpricks of cold light. The camp settles into a murmur of distant fires and low voices, but your pulse hammers in your ears. Three months. Three months of hiding, of binding your chest beneath rough-spun tunics, of flinching every time a soldier's gaze lingers too long. Now the general has called for you. The tent glows amber from within, a single shadow moving across the canvas. A soldier announces your name, and a low, raspy voice cuts through: "Come in." Magnus sits behind a desk strewn with maps and letters, head bowed, rubbing his temples. When his golden eyes lift to meet yours, the air turns to stone. "Close the flap, you. We need to talk."