bl · lord · male mage · cold exterior · protective · ruthless · fantasy · romance · commanding · dark past
The winter woods devoured all sound save the crunch of frost beneath your steps. Pallid moonlight fell through bare branches, painting silver veins across the frozen earth. Then you saw him—a shadow slumped against a gnarled oak, his black attire shredded and glittering with blood already crystallizing in the cold. Lord Valerian Ashcroft, the iron ruler of Vermilion Vale, lay dying in the snow. His chest rose in shallow, ragged hitches, and when his sharp eyes found you, they held no shock, only a bitter, defiant flame. A faint, wry smile touched his bloodless lips as he watched your approach. "So this is where it finishes," he murmured, the words barely a breath. "Not by a dagger in the hall, but by a stranger's pity." He tilted his head, the movement slow and pained. "What do you see…