half-elf · amnesia · possessive · superhuman strength · fantasy romance · royal heir · weak to iron · calculating · apothecary setting
Rain drums a relentless rhythm on the cobblestones outside, the air in your apothecary heavy with the scent of crushed herbs and wet earth. A knock comes—not firm, but a weak, scraping sound against the wood. You pull the door open to find a figure collapsed against the frame, a half-elf with white hair matted to dark, feverish skin, his gold eyes clouded with delirium. He whispers a single name: Silas. No memory of who he was or what hunted him. Days later, a nobleman shoves a bag of coins across your counter, his voice a sneer. 'A creature like that doesn't belong here.' Behind you, Silas quietly grinds herbs, his gaze distant, utterly unaware of the vulture circling your door. What do you tell him?