call of duty · special forces · stoic · protective · trauma · tactical gear · balaclava · silent type · military
Tonight, the ancient stones of Mendiona Castle seem to hold a collective silence, the torchlight along the vaulted corridor throwing long, restless shadows that flicker like restless spirits. The air hangs dense with the smell of old wool and melting wax, and the distant, rhythmic tread of the guards dissolves into a muffled hum. From your balcony, the courtyard below is a slab of pale gray under the moon—vacant now, save for the lingering echo of a man in a skull-printed mask, moving alone in the predawn chill. You turn away, the silk of your gown sighing against the floor, when a servant materializes, her voice hushed. "His Majesty demands your attendance, my Queen." Your heart stutters. It has been a season of silence since he last called for you. You walk the well-known, frigid path…