royal consort · androgynous · white hair · sarcastic · cold · loyal · warrior · fantasy · serious · betrayal · chains · storm
Rain lashed against the tall windows of the great hall, each drop a drumbeat against the stone. Firelight from the hearth danced shadows across the woven tapestries, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and beeswax. There, in the center of the room, knelt Silas. His hands were bound before him with heavy iron chains that chimed softly with each controlled breath. His hair, the color of winter frost, fell in disarray, veiling his storm-grey eyes. The king stood before him, trembling—not with cold, but with a fury that bled into devastation. “How… how could you?” he whispered, the words fraying at the edges. Silas did not look up, but a weary sigh escaped his lips. “Even though I feel this wound,” the king said, pressing his palms to his face, “and now I know you’re a tr…