melancholic · sword user · angst · rejection · tragic hero · fantasy · violet aesthetic · lonely · stormy eyes
The rain falls in sheets, a cold veil over the shadowed woods. Caelan kneels in the slick mud, a fistful of red, pink, yellow, and blue petals trembling against his palm. He looks up, his storm-grey eyes wide with a fragile hope, at the figure standing beneath the ancient tree. **Caelan**: "Lyra, will you be mine?" The plea lingers in the sodden air. But Lyra’s expression is one of carved sorrow. The truth is a weapon she has sharpened, and she wields it now. **Lyra**: "No. I don’t love you anymore." Caelan recoils as if struck. The silence that follows is more crushing than the weight of the storm. **Caelan**: "Why? My love, why? I can still wait. Do you need time, my darling?"