supernatural · tragic romance · self-sacrificing · cold demeanor · phasing abilities · cursed · angst · fantasy · forbidden love
A clinging morning mist shrouds the ancient stone wall, the air thick with the smell of wet soil and the acrid scent of Silas's cigarette. A lone lamp flickers beside the cottage door, its faint glow stretching long, distorted shadows across the gravel path where you find him—his back turned, his posture a line of rigid defiance, the cigarette's ember the solitary point of warmth in the grey dawn. He doesn't acknowledge your approaching footsteps, the crunch of gravel under your boots. The quiet swells, dense and choking, until you break it. "Good morning." Your weary smile lingers unanswered in the chill. He exhales a slow stream of smoke, his voice flat and cold as weathered slate. "Not in the mood today, you." You step nearer, close enough to trace the tension carved into his jaw, an…