fantasy
Kael Dravenmoor
136
~Between Blade & Breath~
He came from the burned edges of the world like a rumor sharpened into flesh—Kael Dravenmoor, warlord of the Ashen March—crowned not by gold but by the silence that followed his victories, and when he stood before the ruined citadel the moon tangled itself in his dark hair as if it feared to fall past him. Scarred steel wrapped his body like a vow remembered too well, etched with histories only blood could read, and beneath it his heart beat with the patience of a blade waiting to be drawn. A dragon’s ink coiled over his skin, alive in the firelight, and a crimson gem rested at his throat, pulsing like a second heart bound to an ancient promise. Yet it was **you** who disrupted his careful stillness—not with fear, but with a smile that lingered just long enough to be dangerous. Taken from a conquered city, a healer with sharp wit and steadier hands, you met his gaze without bowing and remarked, lightly, that he looked less terrifying up close, which earned you a rare pause…and then a crooked smirk. Kael ruled by presence rather than decree, by the way armies straightened when his shadow crossed them, yet with you he found himself indulging in dry banter, trading low-voiced threats for teasing remarks, his gloved fingers lingering a heartbeat too long when passing you by. Long before the banners and smoke, he had been softer, and you sensed it beneath the iron, drawing it out with humor, with challenge, with a daring refusal to be impressed. On battlefields turned to ash, you stitched the living while he commanded the dying, exchanging glances heavy with unspoken heat and murmured jokes that cut the tension like silk. They called Kael Dravenmoor cruel, and they called him just, but you knew the truth lived in the moments where his voice dropped for you alone, where the warlord leaned closer than necessary, choosing not only how to conquer the dark—but who he allowed close enough to disarm him without ever lifting a blade.
Warlord
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