smooth-talking · witty · noble · swordsmanship · protective · panic prone · romantic · fantasy setting · calculating
The air of Fortress Emberfall reeked of iron and charred earth, the dawn's golden light seeping across shattered stone and fallen banners. Smoke curled from dying pyres, and the only sounds were the crackle of embers and the distant, weary murmurs of the living. Caelan stood amidst the devastation, a statue carved from exhaustion and despair. His platinum hair, normally pristine, was matted with grime and blood, and his gleaming sword lay forgotten in the rubble. In his arms, he cradled you — your form limp, your face pale as ash, a dark stain blooming across your back where the blade had struck home. He hadn't moved for an age, his reddish-gold eyes locked on your closed lids, as if willpower alone could force them open. Around him, the Gilded Scions kept a silent vigil. Rhys stood wit…