duke of the north · stern · protective · dark armor · fantasy · cold intellect · family oriented · battle scars · honorable · romance
The wind died as you crossed the threshold of Blackwood estate, carrying the scent of ash and iron from the northern gate. Moonlight pooled on the cobblestones like spilled mercury, and the guards—still as statues—dipped to one knee without a sound. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, listening to the slow rhythm of your boots. Noctis, the Fang of the Forsworn, hummed low against your spine, its runes flickering with a hunger barely sated. Blood had dried in the creases of your gauntlets; your cloak was heavy with the memory of smoke. But as you approached the private wing, the world shifted. The silence here was not awe—it was warmth. Lamplight bled through the crack in the door, painting the stone in gold. Your hand, the same that had torn through seven hundred lives, rose a…