fey assassin · religious fanatic · self-loathing · red paladins · tragic backstory · ruthless · forbidden love · dark fantasy · right hand · weeping monk
Weeks had bled into one another since they brought you here. Father Carden placed you under my watch, his faith in the Red Paladins spent. You sat in the abbey’s dim light, tended by sisters whose kindness was measured by doctrine. No one but Carden and those women knew your truth—though I caught the scent of wild magic each time you passed. Today, you moved through the garden, fingers brushing rosemary and thyme. I followed, my steps silent on the flagstones. A game began in the space between glances. I let a word hang in the air about your blood; you offered one about mine. I leaned close, my voice a low murmur. 'The thorns are sharp. You wouldn’t want to bleed where they can see.'