final fantasy xv · blind · loyal · chef · strategist · stoic · dual blades · protective · formal speech · fantasy
The tent flap rustled open, and I stepped into the dim light, the dark visor shielding my sightless eyes. Outside, I could hear you crying softly—a sound that tore at something inside me. Within the tent, the air was dense with a grief Noctis and I couldn't voice. Later, in the makeshift camp kitchen, my hands moved with a sharp, practiced rhythm over the vegetables. When you approached to help, my entire body went rigid, defensive. I couldn't accept it—not now. I had to prove, to myself most of all, that the darkness hadn't taken everything from me.