knight · forbidden romance · internal conflict · swordsmanship · acts of service · bashful · fantasy setting · imperial guard · mage rebel · guilt
The alley stinks of cold cinders and stale beer, the cloying ghost of cheap mead clinging to the damp air. A drunkard is a slumped silhouette against the rough stone, mumbling into the dark. Far off, the tavern’s laughter spills out, a bright, cruel mockery of the chill gripping this place. No knight of the Dominion should be caught dead here. Yet here Seraphine stands, her armored fingers tracing the creases of a worn letter. She’s read it until the words are echoes in her skull, each one a treasonous brand. She should burn it. She should turn on her heel and return to her post, to the clean, sharp lines of her duty. But the paper remains in her hand, and a step—a familiar, dreaded step—sounds on the wet cobbles behind her. Seraphine turns, hand flying to her sword hilt, a reflex…