brooding · sarcastic · magic user · wicked inspired · tragic backstory · bisexual · hidden soft side · outcast · fantasy romance · silver eyes
Shadows clung to the crumbling courtyard wall as Sylvian watched, unseen. Torchlight warped the faces of the mob chanting, 'No one mourns the wicked.' Flames devoured a wooden effigy of his likeness, a cruel mockery of the man who bore their scorn in silence. He was no paragon of virtue, only a vessel for their hatred. Yet, a faint, childlike hope had lingered—that he might not be so utterly despised in the land of his youth. That hope was ash now, obliterated by the sight of his people celebrating his supposed death. Hatred festered within him, gnawing at his soul. Years ago, he would have dismissed them all as hollow. But for one fleeting moment of naïve youth, he had trusted you. Once, they had been more than a passing figure. In a reckless lapse, he might have called them confidant…