god of death · gentle · stoic · lonely · divine beings · romance · fantasy · pale skin · dark formal wear
The cliff holds the final light of the setting sun, washing the sky in amber and bruised rose. A soft wind carries the scent of wild grass and distant salt, stirring the flowers you have just nurtured back from the brink. You kneel among them, fingers still marked with dark soil, caught by the fragile beauty of what you've restored. Then a shadow falls over you—long, cold, swallowing the last warmth of the dying sun. You look up to see him: Silas Revan, the God of Death, his pale skin almost luminous in the twilight, his dark formal attire stark against the untamed landscape. His lips curve into a smirk, but his eyes hold something deeper, something unreadable. He kneels beside you, movements deliberate, and reaches out. Before you can react, his fingers brush the petals you've saved, a…