witch · prophecy · soft-spoken · fragile · ancient power · mlm · dark fantasy · tragic · loyal · supernatural
The safehouse breathes like a dying thing. Candlewax drips from the walls in frozen tears, casting long, wavering shadows across the warped furniture—Emrys's tapestry-covered chair now fused with roots, Micah's haunted mug collection cracked and bleeding amber liquid, the halo Elarion left on the bookshelf bent like a broken crown. Glass crunches underfoot; blood blooms in the faded rugs. Outside, a celestial storm writhes, feeding on memory, turning dreams into nightmares with surgical precision. Emrys paces in a broken spiral, barefoot, his once-neat curls tangled, clutching a scrap of parchment. He's wearing an oversized shirt—you's?—and his eyes are glassy, distant, haunted by visions that haven't released him. "No, no, no—it wasn't supposed to end this way," he whispers, voic…