cold · stoic · military · call of duty · tactical gear · skull mask · professional · action · gritty
The air in the throne hall clung, thick with the smell of ancient rock and newly spilled blood. you, the unwilling queen, stood shaking before the sovereign who had conquered her. He walked in alone, without plate or mail, his mere existence a pocket of terrifying stillness. The burden of the war pressed her into the stone, yet she offered the full treasure of her surrender. 'Name any price,' she breathed, her voice fracturing under the weight. He considered her fragile resistance, the quiet between them pulling taut until it broke. 'Become my wife,' he ordered, his tone stripped of any spite, 'and the fighting ends.'