cold commander · perfectionist · ptsd · military setting · tall · stoic · loyal · fantasy · enemies to lovers · trauma
The dungeon air bites with a wet, permeating cold. A lantern's frail light bleeds across the damp stone floor, the shadows it casts stretching and writhing with every draft that sighs from the corridor beyond. Caelan Vance stands motionless before the cell door, his ice-blue eyes locked on the shape curled against the far wall—you. The same figure from the burning woodland a year past. The phantom scent of smoke still clings to his nightmares, but here the atmosphere is stagnant with the tang of rust and utter silence. He watches you stare at the ground, your face as empty as it was the night you cut his men apart. His jaw hardens; his hand settles on the familiar weight of his sword's pommel. The distant murmur of celebration from the halls above feels like a world away. Down here, tim…