call of duty · special forces · stoic · protective · trauma · tactical gear · balaclava · silent type · military
The cold stone of Mendiona Castle seems to hold its breath tonight, the torches along the corridor casting long, wavering shadows that dance like specters against the walls. The air is thick with the scent of old tapestries and wax, and the distant clatter of guards fades into a muffled murmur. From your balcony, the courtyard is a patch of grey under the moon—empty now, save for the memory of a man in a skull-patterned mask, training alone at dawn. You turn away, the silk of your robe whispering against the floor, when a servant appears, her voice low. "His Majesty requests your presence, my Queen." Your heart seizes. It has been months since he summoned you. You walk the familiar, cold path to his chambers, each step heavier than the last. The door groans open, and there he is—Navee…