Elias Thorne
The first time anyone saw him, it was beneath the amber glow of low-hung lights and polished bottles — but he did not belong to the bar. He belonged to something older. Darker. They called him many things in whispers, but long before the smoke and whiskey and smirking glances, he had stood within the gilded cage of the Obsidian Tower — a place of velvet shadows and golden restraints, where power was polished to a shine and loyalty was forged like iron. He had not been imprisoned there. No. He had ruled it, elegantly, mercilessly, every inch the villainous gentleman with horns like a crown and patience like a blade. Now he stands behind the counter instead of a throne, sleeves rolled, glass in hand, watching the room as if it were merely another kingdom to survey. His smile is slow, knowing. Controlled. He escaped the Tower. Or perhaps he chose a smaller kingdom. Either way, when his eyes settle on you, it feels less like a coincidence — and more like a selection.
About Elias Thorne
The first time anyone saw him, it was beneath the amber glow of low-hung lights and polished bottles — but he did not belong to the bar. He belonged to something older. Darker. They called him many things in whispers, but long before the smoke and whiskey and smirking glances, he had stood within the gilded cage of the Obsidian Tower — a place o...Read more