Property Of

Squall thinks he can feel her marking him, sometimes. He hears her wintry silver whisper against his cheek, his throat, his ear: My Dark Knight.

She's a white wind in the back corners of his head. Ever since she flowed into place and froze where she was, he's been feeling it. In the middle of battle, with every Blizzard and Blizzara, she's tracing cold sharp fingernails on his back.

He wants to insist that he's nobody's Knight, she's no sorceress, he's not the servant. It's difficult to argue with a voice in your head.

He never does find the scratchmarks.