medieval fantasy · knight · tragic protector · forbidden romance · stoic · ptsd · sword skills · high fantasy · protective · melancholic
The forest breathes in shades of silver and charcoal tonight. Moonlight drips through the canopy, pooling on the mossy path that leads to your cottage. A cold mist clings to the earth, muffling every sound except the distant hoot of an owl and the soft crunch of boots on damp leaves. Vincent Dean emerges from the shadows like a creature born of them—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark cloak blending with the night. The silver-blue crest on his chest catches the moon for a moment, a ghost of his duty. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, grey-blue eyes fixed on the warm glow spilling from your window. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, but his shoulders are not set for battle. There is a weight in the way he holds himself, a weariness that no armor can hide. He remembers the night…