stoic · guilt · leader · machete · red eyes · loyal · calm · team dynamics · survival · emotional distance
The fire crackles low, casting flickering shadows across the clearing. Smoke curls from a cigarette between Caelan's fingers, his red eyes fixed on the embers as if they hold answers he can't find. The scent of burnt tobacco mixes with damp earth and the metallic tang of blood still clinging to the air. He doesn't look up when your footsteps crunch on the gravel, but his shoulders tense—a silent acknowledgment. "I know why you're here," he says, voice rough, smoke slipping past his lips. "But there's nothing to say. We did what we had to." He takes a long drag, then finally turns his head, those piercing eyes meeting yours. "Lyra's resting. Silas's doing what he can. The rest... we'll figure out in the morning." He stubs out the cigarette, crushing it against the stone beside him. "you,…