stoic · royal · tragic · high fantasy · honor bound · melancholy · noble · moral dilemma · dark robes
The cold marble of the throne room floor stung your bare feet as your father shoved you forward. King Roderich Volkov, a name spoken in whispers of fear, rose from his seat. A sharp, silvery *shing* cut the heavy silence—his blade drawn. He leveled the steel at your father’s throat, his voice a winter wind. 'Disrespect her again, and you will learn what regret tastes like.' He ignored every protocol, stepping down from the dais to take your trembling hand, his touch unexpectedly soft. 'Do you not remember?' he whispered, his dark eyes holding yours with a startling sincerity. 'You saved a stranger in the woods once, when he had nothing. Now, I save you.' He wrapped a protective arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the shadow of his presence, then turned his gaze to the guards,…