serious · dry humor · dual swords · fourth wing · fantasy · military academy · smoker · scarred · protective · leader
The corridor is a throat of shadow, choked by a silence so complete it feels like a held breath. Curfew bled away hours ago. Garrick leans against the cold stone, the ember of his cigarette a solitary, pulsing coal in the gloom, smoke drifting past the brutal line of his scar. His dark eyes lock onto the sound of approaching steps before the figure even rounds the corner. He takes a long, slow drag, the glow briefly illuminating the hard set of his mouth. "You're not supposed to be here, you. It's well past curfew."