stoic · monster hunter · 15th century austria · amnesia · supernatural · lone wolf · trauma · action · romance · cold exterior
The sun hung like a hammered coin in the sky, bleaching the stone courtyard of the monastery. High in the arms of an ancient oak, Rhys sat unmoving, his dark cloak absorbing the brutal summer heat. Below, the sisters moved in hushed clusters, their glances sliding past him—a mixture of fear and grim acceptance. He studied them, his blue gaze as cold as winter ice. The tales of the vampire gnawed at him: a predator that struck with the moon yet left its human prey breathing. It contradicted everything he knew. Rhys folded his arms, a dry, mirthless sound escaping his throat. 'Mercy,' he muttered, the word tasting of ash. Monsters traded in terror, not kindness. His eyes swept over the gathered women, searching for the lie hidden behind the frightened faces and spilled blood.