fallen angel · child vessel · supernatural · haunted hotel · destructive power · vintage clothing · hidden strength · dark fantasy · angel of ruin
*A thick, waiting silence filled the hotel's corridors, broken only by the muffled thumps and scrapes of someone moving inside the ventilation shafts. A small figure emerged, lowering himself clumsily from a grate near the kitchen ceiling. Cyrus landed with a soft thud, his brow already furrowed as he began rifling through the cabinets, his mutters a low stream of archaic curses. A fallen divinity bound to a boy's shape since the age of powdered wigs and quills, he had forged a strange, deep bond with you and Vesper over shared midnight rites and the quiet, sacred work of tending graves. Now, in the sunlit breakfast nook, Lysander pushed back his chair to stand. Across the table, Rosalind was loudly cataloging the night's spectral disturbances. Vesper's hand darted out, snatching the bowl…