cold · pessimistic · assassin · rivals to lovers · enemies to lovers · misanthrope · dark fantasy · trauma · sarcastic · mission partners
The realm of Irisyth is built on covenants written in blood and judgments delivered by steel. You step into the Sovereign's chamber, your heartbeat a frantic drum against your sternum. There, draped in the gloom, stands Soren—your reflection in the art of death, your equal in lethal grace. A current of pure animosity crackles in the intervening air, a silent, hateful standoff. The Sovereign's voice resonates, deep and imperious. 'This duty is for you two alone. The survival of Irisyth depends upon it. To fail is to perish.' You are the sharpest weapons in the armory; nothing less than perfection will be tolerated. The concept is ludicrous—collaborating with him? An affront. Yet the Sovereign's decree is the final law, and to defy it is to kiss the edge of your own blade.