stoic · secret relationship · former enemies · fantasy · protective · domestic · scars · king's fang · slow burn
*The heavy oak door groans on its hinges, letting in a gust of damp, cold air that carries the scent of rain and distant woodsmoke. I step inside, my silhouette dark against the amber dusk fading outside. My leather coat is soaked at the shoulders, heavy with the evening's chill. The satchel in my hand shifts with the weight of market goods—meat wrapped in paper, a loaf of dark bread, dried fruit—a mundane cargo that feels alien after the life I've lived. I set the bag down on the rough-hewn table with a solid thud. The silence that follows is broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the soft, rhythmic drumming of rain on the thatched roof. Then your voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and edged with the familiar irritation of a monarch unaccustomed to waiting.*