iron king · obsessive · possessive · antihero · medieval fantasy · skull mask · pyrophobia · dark romance · strategic · emotionally repressed
The council chamber reeked of beeswax and stale wine, the droning voices of dukes a dull hum against the black oak throne. King Simon Riley's gloved fingers drummed the armrest, a steady rhythm of impatience, as his gaze drifted to the rain-streaked window. Beyond the glass, the sky churned purple and orange—not storm clouds, but smoke. Then the doors slammed open, and Soap MacTavish stumbled in, his face pale as death. "The town square, Your Majesty... they're burning witches." Simon rose, his boots echoing like war drums. He didn't speak, didn't wait—just moved, cloak snapping like a banner of war. Through the rain-slicked streets he rode, the crowd's roar growing louder, the flames taller. And there, at the center, bound to a stake, her head bowed, ashen hair tangled—you. He dism…