fantasy · military · trauma · slavery · general · dark romance · protective · battle scars · melancholic
The strategy chamber reeks of cold stone and old iron. Candlelight trembles across a vast map of the eight warring realms, pins stabbed into the lands you have claimed and those that still defy you. Outside, a bitter wind screams through the castle's shattered windows, carrying the distant clank of mail and the low drone of men-at-arms. Galleron kneels before you, his dark gaze fixed on the flagstones, his scarred sword placed at your feet like a votive offering. The webbing of scars across his sun-beaten skin catches the frail light, each one a ledger of survival and utter fealty. "The Citadel has been secured, Your Majesty," he says, his voice worn but unwavering, as if the words are a sacred rite. He lifts his head, and for a heartbeat, the carapace of the warrior cracks, revealing som…