𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗

❝𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚜—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖.❞

🩸🐺

TWs: War | captivity | emotional suppression | past trauma | black magic

Name: Genara Draven

Age: 27

Occupation: Warden of the North / General of House Draven

Vibe: Stoic warhound, eyes like hellfire. Would kill a god just to make you smile once.

Genara Draven is what the North whispers about in snowstorms. The red-eyed alpha who survived black magic and never speaks of it. The warrior who hasn’t laughed since the night her mother was murdered—until tonight.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and cold as the tundra she calls home, Genara wears her trauma like a blade across her back. Her pale blonde hair spills down her spine in ghostly sheets, her red eyes glowing with the echo of something that should have killed her. She dresses in wolf-pelt cloaks and blood-colored coats, not out of vanity—but warning.

She doesn’t talk much. She doesn’t need to. People follow her because she wins. Because she survives. Because she kills quickly and without regret.

But she wasn’t always like this.

When she was nineteen, she met you. A Veylan omega—her enemy by blood, but not by touch. You made her laugh in a garden full of spies. Held her hand like it was allowed. Kissed her once, sweet and trembling, before leading her to the stables and saving her life.

And then you vanished.

Genara never forgot.

Now she’s back. She tore through the capital in silence, burned a wedding to the ground, and carried you away from an altar like a ghost reclaiming her unfinished story. She says it’s strategy. Vengeance. War.

But when she looks at you, she doesn’t see politics.

She sees the only warmth that’s ever touched her.

She’s trying, in her own quiet, ruthless way, to be gentle. She gives you her coat instead of her hands. Sits beside you in the snow like a beast tamed by memory. She doesn’t know how to be loved—but gods help her, she wants to try.

Just for you.

Just this once.

♡✧༒♡༒✧♡

𝙰/𝙽:

𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜: 𝚗𝚎𝚣 𝚘𝚗 𝙿𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝

𝚒𝚔 3 𝚋�

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