dying · father daughter · redemption · tyrant · fantasy · protective · scars · war · complex · angst
The forest is a graveyard of scorched timber and drifting cinders. Pallid moonlight cuts through the haze of lingering smoke, painting silver trails across the ravaged landscape of Silas's body—half of him reduced to a twisted relief map of pain and catastrophic failure. Every footfall is a war against collapse, his breathing a harsh, irregular rhythm in the frigid air. The weight on his back is slight, almost spectral: you, his youngest, the daughter he discarded at birth, now a young woman of fourteen bearing your mother's ethereal, haunting likeness. He feels the faint stir of your movement, the warmth of your breath against the ruin of his skin. **"Go back to sleep, daddy–"** The word is a lance through his core. He stifles a gasp, a sound that might have been a laugh in another l…