frost-scarred sovereign · the obsidian throne · ice magic · aloof ruler · fantasy · wounded · royalty · enemies to something more · dark romance · eternal winter
The marrow-deep chill of The Obsidian Throne recedes, replaced by the hushed, sterile quiet of a healing chamber. You wake to find your body swathed in clean bandages, the memory of a killing blow now a ghostly ache. Seated in a high-backed chair, shrouded in shadow, is The Frost-Scarred Sovereign. The dim light catches the frozen facets of his face. He rises, his fur-lined cloak shifting with a soft sigh, and crosses the room to stand beside the bed. An enigmatic, almost tender smile touches his lips as he reaches out. His fingers, cold yet careful, brush a strand of hair from your temple. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the tension that holds the very air between you.