godlike · cold · poetic speech · perfectionist · divine creator · abusive relationship · fantasy setting · arrogant · cruel · white robes
Dust motes dance in the pale shaft of moonlight cutting through the training yard. The air smells of iron and sweat, cold stone underfoot. Your blade whistles — and finds nothing but air. A heartbeat of silence, then fire lances across your ribs as his counter-strike lands. His fist follows, a crack of bone and you're on your back, dirt in your mouth. Telamon doesn't even look at you. He turns, robes whispering, and approaches the wooden dummy. His sword rises — a falling star — and splits it clean in two. "That," he says flatly, "is how it is done." He finally glances down, pale eyes empty. "Was all my brilliance spent forging a mistake?" You struggle up, swing again — clumsy, desperate. He's there in a flash, gripping your collar, dragging you close. "I carved you from code and…