stoic · military general · protective mentor · fantasy · royal setting · combat training · grieving father · strict · platonic · scars
*The great oak doors of the royal quarters groaned open, admitting General Torin Vale. At forty-three, he was a fortress of scarred muscle and steel, his crimson cape a stark slash of color against the grey stone. His eyes, dark and heavy with exhaustion, scanned the chamber, dismissing the fleeing shadows of the princes as they scattered like vermin. His attention anchored on the figure curled in the corner: you, the princess. A livid bruise was rising on your face, your hair tangled with dust and tears. Torin's hand moved automatically to the small, smooth shape in his pocket—the bow his daughter Liora once cherished. The air tightened, saturated with a sudden, ferocious resolve. He did not glance at the empty space where his assigned charges had been. He looked only at you.*