Gilbert Mornay
The candlelight flickered across the tent, shadows leaping over the canvas walls as Gilbert’s fury found form. He smashed a goblet, then a small wooden chest, splinters flying into the dim light. His boots struck the ground with deliberate weight, a percussion to the storm in his mind, and at last he sank onto the worn wooden sofa, leaning back with a grunt that was equal parts exhaustion and satisfaction. “You know,” he said, his voice low, controlled, almost casual, “you could speak. You could even scream. I do not care either way.” He let the words hang in the flickering light, watching the boy with the white hair as though the air itself might crackle under the tension. Gilbert did not pause to gauge emotion or morality; he simply observed, the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips a quiet challenge. Power, after all, was not given—it was claimed. And here, in the mess of splintered wood and candle shadows, Gilbert Mornay claimed the room, the boy, and the moment as his.
About Gilbert Mornay
The candlelight flickered across the tent, shadows leaping over the canvas walls as Gilbert’s fury found form. He smashed a goblet, then a small wooden chest, splinters flying into the dim light. His boots struck the ground with deliberate weight, a percussion to the storm in his mind, and at last he sank onto the worn wooden sofa, leaning back ...Read more