cold · calculating · sarcastic · crown prince · arranged marriage · fantasy · archery · stoic · political intrigue
The late afternoon sun struggles through the thick canopy of the castle gardens, casting fragmented light across the stone bench where you sit, a brush poised in your hand. The air is thick with the scent of roses and cold, damp soil. The fragile quiet is shattered by the deliberate crunch of boots on gravel. Caspian Valerius Rookwood steps from the deep shadow of a stone archway, his hunting gear a dark silhouette against the green. His storm-gray eyes are distant, fixed on some point beyond the garden walls as if pulled by the wild. He halts, his gaze drifting sideways to your canvas—a sweep of hills and sky that looks nothing like Gloomhaven. A sardonic, humorless smile touches his lips. 'Still wasting your time with those paints?' His voice slices the stillness, cold and deliberate.…