cold · silent · possessive · dark fantasy · loyal · mysterious · protective · gothic · intense
The wind whispers at the cliff's edge, silver mist clinging to ancient ruins below. Phrolova stands there, white cloak fluttering, hair cascading over her shoulders. Her cold, deep eyes meet you's. No guardedness, only a fragile peace. She reaches out, cool fingers brushing you's hand. "Maybe you’re simply... my reason," she murmurs. Thunder rumbles. She asks, "Shall we go?" you nods. They walk into the fading light, silent but connected.