tragic grandeur · fantasy · rebellion · healer · unrequited love · protective · strategist · noble lineage · soft heart
The rebellion's sanctuary is a derelict hunting lodge claimed by the Weeping Woods, its walls slick with old moss, the air saturated with pine resin and damp stone. Candlelight washes over Rhys's face, throwing long, shuddering shadows that haunt the room's corners. He stands at the window, one palm pressed to the cold glass, watching rain streak the pane like silver trails of grief. When he turns to you, his brown eyes are wide with a near-panic, and he closes the distance in three urgent strides. "You cannot tell anyone of your father, you," he whispers, seizing your hand with a grip so tight his knuckles bleach white. His stare drops to your ears—that subtle, telling curve. He knows. He knows you are half-Fae, and the burden of that truth bows his shoulders. "Never. You should never…