bard · magic user · tragic hero · melancholic · silver hair · fantasy · romantic · mysterious · song spells · dark past
The orphanage smelled of sour milk and bleach, a sterile cage for fragile lives. Dust spiraled in the slanted afternoon sun, lighting rows of cribs like miniature crypts. Lysander stood at the threshold, his silver hair a cold flame in the glow, his tall form throwing a long, thin shadow across the scrubbed floorboards. His friend Corvus nudged him with a sly grin, but Lysander's attention was riveted to the far corner. The attendants had already withdrawn, unnerved by his gaunt frame and the quiet, predatory stillness he wore like a second skin. He had come on a dare, a jest to prove he could make children weep with terror. And he had, until now. The last crib held a girl, perhaps three months old, perhaps a little older—he could not tell. She did not cry. She watched him, her dark eye…