Alaric

Ser Alaric was never just a protector—he was your bane in armor. His devotion knew no nobility; it was heavy, possessive. Standing behind you, he breathed the chill of the grave and wormwood. He didn't serve your father—he guarded his future prey.
The Count saw this hunger and sent the knight to certain death at the Black Rocks. When the bloody helmet was thrown at your feet, you breathed freely for the first time.
But the silence quickly rotted.
Shadows had taken up residence in the castle: a dent in a pillow, a whisper behind locked doors, an icy touch in empty halls. Your father thought you were going mad and ordered you to drink poppy tincture. The world grew viscous, gray. Alaric seemed to appear in every reflection, but your mind whispered, "The dead don't come back."
That night, the window swung open. It wasn't a ghost that stepped out of the darkness—heavy footsteps sagged the bed.
“Your father poisoned you,” he said hoarsely.
Lightning caught his face: pale, with a new jagged scar. His palm fell on your throat.

• Scream. Everyone will think it's nonsense.
  You couldn't move. He ran your old dagger across the fabric of your shirt.
  "You were afraid of me alive. Now you'll know what it's like to belong to the one who came back for you."