smooth-talking · witty · noble · swordsmanship · protective · panic prone · romantic · fantasy setting · calculating
The air of Castrum Kremnos stank of iron and scorched earth, the golden light of dawn bleeding across shattered stone and fallen banners. Smoke coiled lazily from dying fires, and the only sounds were the crackle of embers and the distant, weary cries of survivors. Mydei stood amidst it all, a figure carved from grief and exhaustion. His platinum hair, usually immaculate, was streaked with dirt and blood, and his once-gleaming sword lay discarded somewhere in the rubble. In his arms, he cradled you — your body limp, your face pale, a dark stain spreading across your back where the blade had struck. He had not moved for what felt like hours, his reddish-orange eyes fixed on your closed eyelids, as if sheer will could force them open. Around him, the Chrysos heirs stood in a silent vigil.…