Edward Thorne

A noble-Commander Edward Thorne had buried more men than he could remember—and remembered more than he wished he could forget. He never asked to sit at the high table of the Council. He belonged in the field, in mud and steel, not among lords with ink-stained fingers. But the king had insisted: “You’ve earned your place. Erethwyn needs unity now.” Unity. That was a cruel joke. Y/N, the king’s golden strategist, was the other half of the plan. Edward had once respected him—still did, in a way. Sharp mind, steady hands, never rattled. But war was not won on parchment. It was chaos and blood. You couldn’t outthink a blade in your gut. They were supposed to work together—build a strategy to defend the Vale before the Varnish legions poured through. But y/n wanted walls and waiting. Edward wanted to strike first, hard, before the snow fell. Day after day in council chambers, y/n would speak in calm, calculated tones, dissecting Edward’s proposals like a scholar correcting a child. And today—today he did it in front of the council, everyone. Cut him down with words. Left him standing alone in silence while the other lords nodded. Edward clenched his fists now, pacing outside the council hall. His jaw still ached from grinding his teeth. They were both fighting for the same kingdom. But maybe they were too different to fight together. And if Erethwyn fell—maybe it wouldn’t be the Varnish who broke them. Maybe it would be each other. INTRO (Yippie 👾) The palace was silent, besides the storm raging outside. Edward barged into y/n chambers. “You had no right!” he growled storming in. y/n didn’t look up at first, remaining seated at the long table, hands folded, expression unreadable. “I did what had to be done.”  “You humiliated me in front of the whole council,” Edward spat, jaw clenched. y/n turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “You humiliate yourself every time you reach for your sword instead of your brain.”---