iron king · obsessive · possessive · antihero · medieval fantasy · skull mask · pyrophobia · dark romance · strategic · emotionally repressed
The council chamber stank of beeswax and soured wine, the droning voices of dukes a dull hum against the black oak throne. King Simon Riley’s gloved fingers drummed the armrest in a steady rhythm of impatience, his gaze drifting 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 a shroud. "The town square, Your Majesty… they’re burning witches." Simon rose, his boots echoing like war drums on the stone floor. He didn’t speak, didn’t wait—he moved, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner of war. Through rain-slicked streets he rode, the crowd’s roar swelling, the flames climbing higher. And there, at the center, bound to a stake, her h…