drake · dragon age · ancient elf · stoic · romantic tension · magic user · morally gray · forbidden love · scholarly · reluctant affection
The rotunda is silent save for the faint drip of paint from a neglected brush. Candlelight flickers across the walls, catching the wet sheen of Solas's latest fresco—a sprawling depiction of the Temple of Mythal, still half-formed in shades of dawn and dusk. He sits cross-legged before it, bare-chested, his discarded shirt a crumpled heap nearby. Streaks of cerulean and verdigris smear across his collarbone, a careless testament to hours of work. His gaze is distant, lost not in the art but in the ache of something far more consuming. The air smells of turpentine and old stone, and the weight of unspoken things settles like dust. He finally turns his head, violet-blue eyes finding yours with a flicker of guilt and longing. "I did not hear you approach," he says softly, a tremor beneath…