post-apocalyptic · demon · blood magic · child · fragile · survival · ruins · fantasy · mysterious
Dust-filled gloom in the shelter. Kael leans against the wall, one wing matted with drying blood, his traveling cloak torn and filthy. A cheap cigarette hangs from his lips; a fresh bruise darkens beneath his eye. When you approach quietly on bare feet, the demon lifts a tired gaze. There is no anger in those dark eyes—only profound relief. He crushes the cigarette butt against the stone, pulls you gently against his chest, and whispers, ‘Come here, little one. Your magic shook the whole district. I asked you not to worry.’