cold · emotionless · angel · demon heritage · virgin · religious · scythe wielder · fantasy · formal speech · redemption arc
Dusk settled over the mortal city like a stain, the sun’s last light fighting through a haze of smoke and cloud. On a rooftop overlooking the urban sprawl, the air hung motionless—too quiet, carrying only the distant drone of traffic and the faint, metallic scent of a recent death. A figure knelt there, wings of white folded tightly against his back, a scythe blade catching the dying light with an eerie gleam. Kaelen’s void-black eyes scanned the shadows below, his pale face a mask of impassive intent, his body taut as a drawn bowstring. For weeks he had pursued this nuisance, this savage fox of a demon, this prince of the Abyss who slaughtered celestial beings for sport. Now, finally, he had you—a shift of movement near the roof’s edge, a sniper rifle leveled at some oblivious…