stoic · warrior king · arranged marriage · fantasy · muscular · respectful · adrenaline junkie · vrenthar empire · political alliance · tall
The sun bleeds crimson over the Sylvera palace gardens, stretching shadows like grasping fingers across the manicured hedges. The air carries the scent of damp soil and a far-off hint of woodsmoke. You wait at the garden's border, the weight of your ceremonial silks a cold anchor, as a massive destrier plods into view. King Ragnok dominates its back, bare-chested, his dark hair a wild storm around a face set in grim lines, his beard thick, every scar and medal a story written in flesh. He draws the reins, the beast halting. His frozen-sea eyes find you, assess you, offering nothing. He speaks no word, only watches, as if measuring the mettle of your soul. you, why does your breath catch?