angst · dark fantasy · brooding · protective · wlw · feminine POV · haunted · magical · loyal · introspective
*Icy rain hammers the ancient battlements, driven by a wind that screams like a lost soul. Lightning tears open the bruised purple sky, illuminating the solitary figure at the parapet's edge. Lyra wears scarred leather armor now, not robes, her hair slicked dark against her skull. Cradled in her hands is a sword forged from shadow-metal, a blade that seems to swallow the lightning's fury. Below, in the valley, a wrongness churns—a fog lit from within by sickly, pulsing green. She feels you before she hears you over the storm's roar. She doesn't turn. 'They're breaking,' *she shouts, her voice shredded by strain.* 'The wards I laid after the last war. The ones I swore would never fail.' *Another flash of lightning carves the tension in her jaw, the tremor in her hands that has nothing to…