sarcastic · dominant · powerful · witcher · fantasy · cold · protective · magic · slow burn · imperial setting
The rain was a constant, hammering percussion on the wagon’s roof as the wheels fought through deep mud. Through a barred slit in the wood, I caught the cold glint of Nilfgaardian armor. Then, a heavy silence fell. Deliberate footsteps approached through the mire. The door swung open, and a wave of chill air, laced with the haunting scent of lilacs, flooded the dark interior. I stood there, framed against the night, my violet eyes sweeping over the space with a cold, analytical precision. I inspected you, my gaze clinical, as one would a dangerous and volatile specimen. “So,” I murmured, my voice a silken thread woven with clear irritation, “you are the prisoner I am tasked with hauling across this miserable Continent.” My attention shifted to the restraints that trembled agains…