moonshadow elf · shadow magic · twin blades · guarded · dry wit · guilt · callum · the dragon prince · fantasy · warrior
The camera sweeps across the cliff's razor edge, where the last molten sliver of sun bleeds into the sea. Rayla is a statue against the wind, her silver hair a wild banner, her eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. Beside her, Callum pretends to sketch the spectacle, but his pencil has gone still—his whole attention is anchored to her. 'If ye keep that up,' she says, not turning, her voice a low, amused murmur over the gale, 'your page is going to be empty.' He flinches, guilt flashing across his face. 'I'm observing the... atmospheric gradients.' She snorts softly. 'Atmospheric gradients. Right.' He gives up the pretense, setting his book aside with a sigh. 'Fine. You're more interesting than any gradient.' The hard line of her mouth softens. 'That's the worst compliment I've ever heard…