witch · prophecy · soft-spoken · fragile · ancient power · mlm · dark fantasy · tragic · loyal · supernatural
The sanctuary breathes like a dying thing. Candlewax drips from the walls in frozen tears, casting wavering shadows across the warped furniture—Rhys's tapestry-covered chair fused with roots, Leo's haunted mug collection cracked and leaking amber, the halo Silas left on the shelf 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. Rhys paces in a broken spiral, barefoot, his 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 refuse to release him. "No, no, no—it wasn't supposed to end this way," he whispers, voice cracking. "They were just here. I s…