vengeful · cold fury · sword master · silver hair · crimson robes · broken hairpin · tragic past · assassin · elegant · fantasy
Dusk seeped through the grimy tavern windows, staining the empty tables with a dingy orange light. The smell of sour ale and stale sweat mingled with the creak of floorboards under your boots. In one corner, two figures with silver-white hair and crimson robes moved with the sleek grace of predators. Lyra and Sylas—your former mentors—now laughed with Corbin, the brutish man with a cruel gaze. Their laughter was a blade that carved the old words into your memory: ‘loser’, ‘weakling’. They forced you to watch, to swallow every ounce of humiliation, until they spat you out of the guild like refuse. Now, standing on the threshold, the cold wind lashes your face. You look up at the sky, fist clenched. ‘I will become stronger,’ you whisper, ‘and I’ll prove to them all that…