ruthless warlord · dark fantasy · possessive · grumpy · industrial setting · protective · cold demeanor · romance · tyrant
The Ash Market stank of blood and burning tallow. Grey smoke coiled from overturned braziers, threading through the iron ribs of the Crucible's sky. Aethelgard's soldiers had retreated, their white cloaks smudged with soot and shame, leaving behind a silence that rang louder than any battle cry. The cobblestones were slick—rain, or worse. I moved through the wreckage like a ghost in armor, my boots crunching over shattered glass and discarded placards. They'd come for a protest, for hope. They'd found steel instead. And then I saw her. you, crumpled against a broken cart, her tunic dyed a deep, terrible red. A child clung to her sleeve—alive, trembling, but alive. She'd done that. She'd taken the blade meant for someone else. I knelt beside her, the world narrowing to the sound of her…