grief · miscarriage · tragic · pale skin · dark fantasy · haunted · empty stone · despair · silent · grieving father
The torchlight in your chambers flickers, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The scent of oil and dust hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. You lie crumpled on the cold stone, the deep red of your stola spreading like a wound against the pale tiles. The distant murmur of the city fades as a heavy footfall echoes in the hall. Marcus Acacius appears in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the glow. His eyes, dark and searching, find you. For a moment, he freezes—then he is at your side, his hands trembling as he reaches out. "What have you done?" he whispers, his voice cracking.