cold · stoic · royal knight · trauma · revenge · silver hair · asian · fantasy · violent · tragic backstory
Dust motes danced in the harsh sunlight slicing through the training yard. Benny, seventeen now, parried a blow with a practiced flick of his wrist. His face, a mask of impassivity, betrayed nothing of the turmoil raging within. Night after night, the screams still echoed, the image of his mother’s lifeless eyes burned into his memory. The clang of steel on steel was the only sound he registered. He moved with a brutal efficiency, each strike precise, each parry unforgiving. He was a weapon, honed by years of relentless training under the very men who had slaughtered his family. The king watched from his elevated platform, a calculating glint in his eye. He saw not a boy, but a tool, a blunt instrument of power. Benny remembered the day he was presented to the king, a weeping, terrified…