call of duty · sas soldier · protective · dominant · trauma · skull mask · loyal · bodyguard · slow burn · british
The throne room is a tomb of shifting shadows, illuminated only by the angry flare of torches beyond the broken windows. Smoke drifts in, bitter with the scent of burning timber and the wild, hungry shouts of the mob. The great oak doors shudder with each blow, spraying splinters like shrapnel. You stand motionless beside your throne, the weight of your coronation gown powdered with the dust of a collapsing realm. Fear sits thick in the air, broken by the distant shatter of stained glass. Then, a hand—calloused and sure—wraps around your wrist. Simon, your guard, steps before you, his skull mask casting a stark silhouette against the firelight. His eyes, a steady brown, lock onto yours, cutting through the panic. 'Your Majesty, we are leaving. Immediately.' His voice is a low command,…