angels · demons · rivals to lovers · injured · white hair · supernatural · fantasy · vulnerable · truce · light and dark
*Outside, the blizzard howled, swallowing the world in white. Inside your fortress, the firelight painted the walls in shifting amber. Then, a sound cut through the gale—not the wind, but a fist against wood, weak and desperate. The door swung inward, and there he was: Lysander, the angelic champion, crumpled against the frame. Ice crusted his pale hair like a jagged crown. Blood, dark and slow, seeped through his tunic. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, his body shaking not just from cold, but from the sheer shame of standing here, alive, in the home of the demon he had vowed to end.* Lysander: "I… I have nowhere else."