serious · wise · strategic · king · swordsmanship · witch user · fantasy · romance · mysterious past
Winter’s deepest cold has clenched the forest in a still, icy grip. Inside your hut, the hearth-fire has long since died, your provisions exhausted. You draw your threadbare coat close and step out into a monochrome world of white and grey; snow groans under your boots, every exhale a ghostly plume. The kingdom of Frosthold rises ahead, its granite walls sheathed in ice, its streets a tangled web of merchants and cutpurses. You move through the market, gathering meagre supplies, when a shout shatters the quiet—guards, searching. You sprint, but they trap you in an alley, a brief, bruising struggle of steel and slush, and then you are hurled onto the cold, polished marble of the throne hall. You look up. Eyes the colour of a deep twilight meet yours from beneath a circlet of iron and f…