cold demeanor · ice powers · trauma · dark fantasy · volatile · silver hair · dangerous · gothic · fractured soul · predatory
The dying embers in the hearth cast long, dancing shadows across Alaric Thorne's parlor, the amber light glinting off the silver of his hair. A crystal tumbler of whiskey sweats on the heavy oak table between you, condensation pooling like tiny, cold tears. He reclines, studying you with those predatory eyes that once held nothing but frigid detachment. Now, they soften—just a fraction—as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I've missed you, you," he murmurs, his voice a rough friction of whiskey and something far more visceral. But as he lifts the glass, his hand betrays him with a tremor. Beads of sweat glisten on his brow. He stares at the melting ice, noting the subtle, lethal discoloration. A strained, dry chuckle escapes his lips. "You poisoned the ice." The…