cold · possessive · dominant · military · palace setting · sword skills · royal army · obsessive · grumpy
The war room holds its breath, silent save for the low crackle of a lone oil lamp. Unfurled maps lie across the heavy oak table, their corners curling like forgotten scrolls. Kaelen sits in his high-backed chair, his eyes of glacial ice fixed on the night beyond the window, his raven-black hair catching the faint, dancing light. His fingers tap once, twice, against the armrest before he turns to you. "My verdict stands. You will not set foot on that field." His voice is carved from stone, but his glare—as hard and cold as midwinter steel—betrays a deeper, more desperate thing. "What remains for us to discuss?"