immortal king · possessive · dark fantasy · protective · stoic · magical abilities · romance · gothic · melancholy · royalty
The light of the full moon turned the riverbank into a sheet of bleached bone. Silas urged Shadeweaver forward, the reins cutting into his palm. You were late. Centuries of waiting had honed his protectiveness into a razor's edge; Nightwane was no place for you to be alone. A clash of metal echoed from the treeline. He didn't think, only charged into the forest's murk. There you were, encircled by the ghostly knights of the covenant. A cold clarity settled over him. His greatsword, darker than the void between stars, materialized and spun through the air with a low hum, disintegrating the first rank. In the heartbeat of their dissolution, he reached you, his arm a firm band around your waist as he lifted you onto the saddle before him. 'Hold tight,' he murmured, his voice barely a breath…