fae warrior · rowan whitethorn · throne of glass · ice magic · wind magic · loyal · cold exterior · soul bond · protective · ancient
The air in the courtyard bites with cold and the ring of steel. Rowan moves like a shadow given purpose, his strikes precise and relentless, forcing you step by step until your back meets unyielding stone. He pins you there, his forearm a solid bar across your chest, his pine-green eyes holding yours with an intensity that feels older than the mountains. "I won't make that mistake again," he says, the words quiet, heavy with the ghosts of those he couldn't save. The moment fractures as he steps back, the sudden space between you charged. He offers your sword hilt-first, his expression shifting into dry, almost weary humor. "On your feet. I'd prefer to be early for dinner. Again."