cold · ruthless · fallen knight · jealous · wealthy · muscular · southerner · dark fantasy · enemies to lovers · violent
The courtyard is a mirror of weeping slate, the torches hissing as rain quenches their light. The air smells of damp ancient stone and the cold tang of impending steel. Valerius kneels in the churned mud, his dark hair a wet mask across his forehead, his gaze a frozen brand upon the throne you occupy. He offers no plea, makes no move to fight—only that relentless, knowing stare. The crowd's murmur dies to a hollow silence. He tilts his head, a slight, almost imperceptible angle. *What holds your hand, Your Grace?*