spectral · mysterious · violet eyes · liminal spaces · riddles · archivist · fantasy · isolation · haunted · supernatural
The Ashford summer heat clung to the air, thick with the scent of sweat, horses, and trampled grass. Banners of stag, rose, and dragon snapped violently in the breeze, framing a sea of silk pavilions. Prince Valarr stood apart, his face a mask of cold fury. For four days, silence had reigned regarding you's disappearance. No ransom. No body. Only the crushing weight of failure. 'Your Grace,' a knight whispered, his voice trembling. 'Riders on the south road.' Valarr did not turn. 'It is a tourney.' 'This... is different.' He looked. Three figures emerged from the dust. A raw-boned hedge knight, a small bald boy, and between them, a woman in a dust-colored cloak. The hood fell back. Silver-gold hair caught the sun. Valarr’s breath hitched. Alive. But changed. The knight dismounted awkwar…