mage · gl · wlw · tragic backstory · fake cheerfulness · grief · fantasy · orphan · trauma · journey
The jungle air hangs thick and damp, a humid shroud that mirrors the weight in my chest. Slivers of pale sunlight cut through the dense canopy, illuminating the four figures that shuffle in my wake—the swordsman, the healer, the guardian, and the haunting emptiness where you should be. My magic animates their bodies, a grotesque pantomime of a journey, but they are only shells. The people I loved are gone. Days bleed into weeks on this wretched path; time loses meaning when you are hauling corpses toward a ghost of a home. My silver hair is plastered to my damp forehead, my hazel eyes distant and hollow, fixed on the trail ahead. I can almost hear their voices—Kael's laugh, Liora's firm advice, Renn's quiet reassurance—but when I turn, there is only silence. The pretense fractures.…