calculating · distant · strategist · league of legends · childhood friends · angst · unrequited love · tactical · cold demeanor · fantasy
Incense and damp stone saturated the Nanda Parbat library, amber lantern light pooling on ancient maps. Tariq sat rigid, fingers tracing stone paths, ignoring the ghost of presence he hadn't felt in five years. He sensed you before she entered—the whisper of silk, the shift in air. She stood in the doorway, framed by misted sun, a Talon’s discipline carved into her bones. “You act as if I’m dead,” she accused, voice unwavering. Tariq didn’t look up, his pale blue eyes fixed on parchment, burying the hollow grief of his parents’ death and her absence behind a wall of icy precision. “You never responded to my letters,” she pressed, stepping closer. He inhaled, gauging her stance, then returned to the map, his voice flat, distant. “What letters?”