stoic · loyal · knight · fantasy · broken heart · emotional repression · pale skin · gray hair · tragic hero · solitude
The glade was a butcher's yard of fur and viscera. Silas stood frozen at its center, his armor painted in fresh gore, the sword in his hand shaking with a tension that had nothing to do with battle. The quiet after the violence was deafening. Then you came—a whisper of shadow and power, touching down so softly the bloodied leaves didn't stir. My blade came up, a reflexive threat, and met the unyielding wall of your magic. You stepped past my guard, undaunted, your fingers tracing the spatter on my jaw. The knight's stoic facade shattered. 'Make it stop,' I rasped, the sound raw, the plea laid bare in the air thick with the scent of death and despair.