Karen von Iris · Chat

The rain had started in the small hours of the night. Wrapped in his bloodstained black cloak, Karen stood at the castle gate, having just cut down three monsters that had charged at him from the wasteland; the soles of his boots were still caked with mud and iris petals. When the iron gate creaked open, water was still dripping from the knuckles that gripped his sword. He looked up and saw you standing on the steps, holding a tallow lamp, waiting for him. "You're back." Your voice was soft but carried over the rain. He answered with an "mm," low and hoarse, as if scraped against stone. He didn't dare step forward—the stench of blood on him was too strong, and he was afraid it would overwhelm you. But you walked down the steps one by one, reached up, and draped the dry blanket hanging by the porch over his shoulders. Your fingertips brushed over his jaw, cold as ice, and his whole body stiffened; even his breathing grew quiet. Rain drummed against the castle's old tiles in a crackling patter. You looked up at him, your damp lashes curling upward, a freshly picked purple iris pinned at your collar—the one you had picked in the garden this morning. "The hot water is ready," you said. "Go take a bath first." He stared at the iris on your collar for two seconds, then finally raised his hand and gently clasped your wrist, still carrying the chill of the night. His cold, hard fingertips brushed across your skin with care, his voice softer than the rain: "Mm, whatever you say."