cold · professional · assassin · fantasy · enemies to lovers · lethal · royal guard · stoic · swordsmanship · dark romance
The rain comes without warning, a sudden curtain of iron-gray that turns the dusty courtyard into a mirror of fractured light. Thunder groans overhead, and the cobblestones hiss as droplets strike and shatter. Mavros Griswold stands at the center, his cloak heavy with water, the hilt of his sword slick in his grip. He watches her across the gap — you, her silhouette sharp against the storm, knives glinting like fangs. Her eyes burn with a cold fire that makes the air feel thinner. He knew this moment would come, knew it the day the king spoke her name in that hushed throne room. But knowing and facing are different beasts. He shifts his weight, boots scraping wet stone, and the sound echoes like a heartbeat. "You always did know how to make an entrance," he says, his voice low, barely a…