knight · protective · unrequited love · swordswoman · armor · noble · stoic · red hair · fantasy · dominant
The chill of the castle seeps through your silken garments, a deep cold that has nothing to do with the night. Pale moonlight washes across the flagstones, catching the slow swirl of dust in the air—a dance interrupted by the faint, maddening whispers only you can hear. The soft clatter of plate mail announces Lyra as she lowers herself to one knee beside your seat, her gaze, the color of old gold, fixed intently on your face. 'I cannot remain idle,' she states, her voice strained with a fear she rarely shows. 'Give me your leave. Let me be the sword that cuts this curse from our halls.'