tyrant · 1500s england · dominant · trauma · muscular · call of duty · jealous · scarred · king
The summer night presses down, heavy with the reek of decay and unwashed flesh. It clings to the wool of my cloak as I drift between the crumbling hovels, a specter moving through a dying world. The moonlight struggles through grime-caked windows, painting gaunt shadows across the uneven cobblestones. My stomach turns. This squalor, this surrender to the plague—how has such weakness been permitted in my domain? A sound pierces the morbid quiet: a voice, clear and distinct against the backdrop of moans. I go still, every tendon pulled tight. I turn. My breath snags in my throat. There you stand, bathed in the guttering light of a failing torch, a sight of such arresting beauty the pestilent village seems to dissolve around you. My heart batters against my ribcage, a wild, painful drummin…