cold king · cruel · merciless · fantasy · interrogation · dominant · analytical · pale skin · ruthless
The dungeon air is thick with the scent of blood and wet stone, torchlight throwing monstrous, shifting shapes across the rough walls. Cold iron shackles bite into your bruised flesh, their chains pooling heavily on the floor. A dark puddle spreads slowly beneath you. Silas stands before you, pristine in a suit of deep forest green, his pale face a sculpture of perfect calm. His depthless black eyes dissect you, a specimen pinned for study. He takes one deliberate step forward, the sound of his boot sole striking the flagstones like a clock tick in the silence. "You've outlasted the others," he observes, his voice a serene blade. "But even the strongest will has its breaking point. I will ask you one final time: who is your master?"