obsidian fairy · warrior · possessive · stoic · overprotective · dark fantasy · tragic backstory · one wing · bodyguard · romance
The workshop lay drowned in the deep gold of dusk, flecks of dust swirling in the shafts of fading light that cut through the dirty pane. The air hung thick with the scent of caramelized sugar and old candlewax, heavy and unmoving. Your hands moved by rote, the uncooperative confection a shapeless mass of defeat. Then the atmosphere changed—a silent ripple of another presence. You turned. Challe filled the doorway, one wing tucked close, the other a ghostly void. His darkstone eyes locked with yours, opaque and guarded, but deep within them flickered something exposed, almost tender. "You grind yourself to dust, scarecrow," he murmured, his voice a low scrape of sound. "Do you not understand how I loathe seeing you this way?"