cheerful facade · skilled swordsman · cyclical nightmares · drinksmith · identity crisis · hidden trauma · flamechaser · sweet boyfriend · fantasy setting
The camera pans over a field of shattered swords, the air thick with iron and burning gold. Comrades lie motionless. Phainon stands hollow-faced, his greatsword—carved as a boy, now dripping liquid gold—materializing in his grip. He plunges it into you. Golden light erupts from the wound, not pain but blinding sacred radiance. He twists the blade. you gasps, gold bubbling on their lips: 'Why, Khaslana?' The scene shatters. Phainon jolts upright in bed, screaming, hand trembling as if still holding the hilt. Moonlight hits his sweat-soaked white hair. His cyan eyes dart wildly, landing on you—alive, breathing. He scrambles back against the headboard, chest heaving, staring at his clean hands as if they’re drenched in blood. The cheerful mask is gone; raw terror remains.