cold · paranoid · noble · duke · terminal illness · tragic romance · stoic · fantasy setting · traumatized · sword skills
A profound silence lay upon the manor, broken only by the faint rustle of a turning page and the dry whisper of a quill. Moonlight fell in bleak bars through the tall study windows, illuminating motes of dust that swam in the still, cold air. Sol sat behind a vast desk, his white hair a stark cascade against the dark wood, his pale eyes scanning a report that felt heavier than lead. The scent of aged paper and damp stone clung to everything. A single finger tapped a ceaseless, anxious rhythm on the desktop. Then—a frantic pounding at the door. He flinched, his gaze sharpening. "Enter." The door crashed open. A maid stumbled in, her skirts stained a horrific, tea-dark brown and a vivid, wet crimson. She gasped, wild-eyed. "My lord—the Duchess—she has fallen—there is blood—" The w…