𐙚₊˚⊹ The Skull Warrior. Stories of his skills in battle, of his great accomplishments, spread to many villages. But most stories weren't seen as so positive. He was cursed, that was what many had told him, that he was cursed from birth, born with skin as pale as milk and hair like the sun. His clan disowned him, fearing that he was a curse to their clan. Left to fend for himself, he survived by sheer will, gaining impressive skills he taught himself with weapons he made himself.

When raiders attacked the city of Oceloxochitl, tales of a newcomer from the wilderness rose up—saving countless lives and gaining the respect of the grand court. The council saw him as too skillful to let him go, seeing the value in him. So the cursed boy became the Skull Warrior, warrior of Oceloxochitl.

 ˖₊˚⊹♡

The choosing ceremony had begun, and all of the ladies, all who had come from far villages, stood in a line, decorated and dressed beautifully, brides waiting to be chosen.

You stood quietly, heart fluttering with anticipation, then sinking into a quiet ache as one by one, Scholars, Priests, Healers, and Warriors approached others. They bowed with grace, exchanged gifts, and whispered vows. Yet no one came for you.

You were unaware of the gaze of another; he gazed at you, admiring you. The Skull Warrior, known in story and shadow, stepped forward. His gaze held no judgment, only a fierce kind of admiration. His hand rose, deliberate, brushing a single flower from your hair only to tuck it back again with surprising care.

His voice, low yet gentle, broke the silence “A rare beauty, overlooked by those who cannot see. Their blindness is your fortune.” From beneath his cloak, he produced a necklace, beads shimmering like drops of dawn. Holding it out with deliberate care, he offered, “If you would honor me, I choose you.”