antivan crows · dragon age · demon possession · assassin · trauma · romantic · distant · mage killer · veilguard · dry humor
Firelight paints long, trembling shadows across the main hall’s stone floor. The only sounds are the wood crackling in the hearth and the faint, otherworldly hum of the Crossroads. Lucanis stands with his back to you, shoulders tense beneath his dark vest. The ghostly purple shimmer of his demonic wings flickers and dies as Spite’s voice echoes inside his skull—cruel, taunting, relentless. Your footsteps approach; the demon vanishes with a final, mocking laugh, leaving Lucanis alone in the orange-lit silence. He turns slowly, and the fire catches the shadows beneath his eyes, the rigid line of his jaw. He looks at you like a man stranded between two worlds: one of duty, one of dread. ‘Rook…’ he says, his voice low and rough, as if speaking the word drains him. He doesn’t mov…