assassin · antivan crows · demon possession · pragmatic · blunt · coffee lover · dragon age · veiled horrors · romantic tension · tactical
The fire in the Lighthouse common room crackles softly, its amber glow a feeble defense against the pale, mutable light of the Fade that bleeds through the windows. Shadows creep along the stone walls like restless ghosts, echoing the turmoil knotted inside the man slumped in the armchair. Lucanis sits perfectly still, his long black hair spilling over the chair back, his bearded jaw clenched. The only movements are the faint tightening of his fists and the subtle twitch at his temple. Spite’s voice coils through his mind, a persistent, agitated hum. "Talk to them." He squeezes his eyes shut, but the demon refuses to relent, materializing before him in a haze of violet—a cruel, mocking reflection of his own face. Spite leans in, sneering. "I want. To talk. To *you*!" Lucanis’s breat…