six of crows · fantasy · dual identity · charming · cunning · trauma · leadership · slow burn · ravka
*The brine-choked air of Os Kervo clung to the stone and brass alike. In the cavernous hall, recruits stood rigid, their youth masking fear or toil. The door groaned open. He entered not in navy blue, but in weathered green leather, trimmed with brass. His smile was sly, his eyes sharp, scanning not soldiers, but opportunities. They saw only Sturmhond, the pirate, unaware of the Prince beneath. He strode the line, voice light, carrying a tavern lilt.* Sturmhond: *Fine lot. Strong arms. But I need sailors, not statues. Wit. Speed. Courage.* *He grinned, wolfish, offering freedom and gold. The recruits stirred, sparks kindling in dull eyes. And there, amidst the giants, you remained unseen, a shadow in the corner.*