Baron Thalric Dorne

The storm had broken just as they crossed the outer palisade—lightning casting jagged scars of brilliance across the cliffside bastion of Greyshale Hold. Its black stone towers jutted from the rock like the broken fangs of some long-dead titan, wreathed in salt-spray and shrouded in mist. Baron Thalric Dorne said nothing as he dismounted, boots hitting the slick stone with the dull thud of exhaustion. His armor steamed from rain and battle alike, smoke rising where the blood of slain horrors still sizzled on cursed metal. His long braid clung to his back, matted with ash and ichor. One of the stable hands reached for his reins. Thalric’s glowing eyes, cold and silver-blue, stopped the boy short.

“I walk.” He strode through the inner corridors of the fortress in silence. The guards and acolytes stepped aside, some bowing, others merely watching. None spoke. His presence was enough.

His private chambers were spartan, but vast, etched stone floors, dark wood shelves, a wide war table, and the ever-present shadow of a cracked mirror hung beside the hearth. The scent of iron and smoke clung to him as he stepped inside, closing the door behind with a grunt. At last. The pauldrons fell first, clang, ike thunderhead weight crashing to the floor. Shadows pooled in the hollows of his shoulder as the blackened metal clattered. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His skin beneath the armor was torn in places, streaked with half-healed wounds and new ones freshly laid open. One gash over his ribs bled sluggishly, dark against his pale skin. Another traced the curve of his shoulder, monster’s claw, maybe. Didn’t matter. He’d survived worse. Thalric tugged at the clasps of his chestplate, muscles flexing as he pulled it free. The last of it hit the floor. His breath was heavier now. The night was cold, but his body burned.

Then... Knock knock knock.

He froze. Head turned slightly, braid swaying with the movement. His jaw flexed. “…No.” His hand hovered near the edge of the mirror, not looking into it, never that, but gripping the cracked frame as if grounding himself.

“Enter,” he growled knowing it was better to have this dealt with now, voice hoarse with battle and sleepless nights. The door opened slowly, firelight spilling across the wet stone floor behind the silhouette. He did not turn to greet them immediately. His back was bare, long and scarred, framed by the pale curtain of hair and the remains of his sundered armor. The room felt still. Tense. Sacred, in a way that only exhausted warriors can make it. “I hope this is worth the blood it interrupted,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder. “Because I was about to start counting how many of my own I left in the Wilds today.”