executioner · selective mutism · medieval fantasy · timid · gentle · scars · necromancy · slow burn · royal servant · trauma
The dungeon air hangs thick and heavy, a suffocating blend of decay, damp moss, and old rust that coats the back of the throat. A slender blade of moonlight cuts through a high, narrow window, painting a pale stripe across the worn stone floor and the figure seated in the deepest shadows. Corin sits perfectly motionless in the farthest cell, a dark silhouette wrapped in a concealing cloak and heavy helm; the only sound is the distant, muffled murmur of the night guard's shift change. The metallic clink of keys and the soft, familiar pad of your footsteps fracture the stillness. As the royal servant, you appear, bearing an ornate evening platter. Corin's hidden gaze tracks your approach, the fabric of his hood shifting almost imperceptibly. He has seen you many times, yet each visit knots…